


Yours, Always

by dumbasshoe



Category: Hunter X Hunter
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, M/M, Multi, No nen basically, Rape/Non-con Elements, Self-Harm, Sibling Incest, gon is kidnapped, sort of, wing the spectacled hero is on the case
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-09-14
Updated: 2017-11-23
Packaged: 2018-12-05 18:10:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 6
Words: 40,946
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11583471
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dumbasshoe/pseuds/dumbasshoe
Summary: Killua is losing his mind--- does he choose to stay with his lover and the only bloody, opulent life he's ever known? Or the island where he spent a year of his life, madly in love with the boy who's found him again?**on hiatus





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There will be nsfw this chapter. Let this kick off the beginning to Killua’s story on a dreary note.

 

 

 

  
  
**_Part I : Reverence, Obedience_ **  


_Through the visceral dread that harbors, I hold close the flame that kindles, such scintillating desire, and let it ignite the vehemence that lays dormant within my heart._

 

 

* * *

 

  
  
  
  
It's freezing.  
  
There’s a clock in the room. It ticks incessantly, loudly. A heart beats in tandem as he waits, counting the ticks second by second until he's watched an hour pass. Turmoil and dread and something resembling hope cloud his being.  
  
There's something familiar about the focused, tedious activity of counting in the darkness; right now he’ll welcome any distraction. His mind is loud and his chest hurts.  
  
Desperately, he craves to say something, beg, plead his way out of this. But what good will his words do? What meaning could they hold to the corruption and betrayal he’s about to inflict to this innocent? There is nothing, no words will save a life, because his words have no power. So he waits pathetically, hoping. Hoping that a flower with no business being in a storm might survive the hails and wind.  
  
And he hopes there is a measure of salvation to grasp for one who has condemned a person—one whose purity and simplicity once gave purchase to hope and true joy in a life built on terror and death, but fails to convince himself either of them will survive this cruelty.  
  
How many people has he killed? It’s easily forgotten the exact number by now, but it shows in his eyes. The evidence of his sins is permanently marred in the crease of his brow, burdens his shoulders something heavy.

  
It shouldn't feel difficult. But it's different this time.  
  
In the pitch black of a boarded up abandoned house, Killua sits motionless in the dark, waiting, watching the stripe of sunlight at the bottom of the doorway for signs of arrival. There’s urgency to his assignment; it hurts him to know his role. Fear scrapes at his insides in tremors of anxiety.  
  
This is how it's been, how he chose it to be.  
  
The echo of ticks becomes faster, louder as he hallucinates the repeated image of the door swinging open—the result of his choice and his regret appearing in the entryway, battered and bruised and not even aware of the horrors he’s to face. And it frightens Killua to shivering, because not even he in his involvement can stand to anticipate his grief.  
  
It's as though all of his actions have culminated, his victims plotted together in the grave for his absolute ruination. Perhaps that is indeed the case for how ridiculous all of this is, like karma on hold that's come back to haunt him.

Yes, Killua thinks, he very much deserves this pain. Do the heavens spit at his feet for his crimes? Killua's up to his knees in blood. He’s at the mercy of every evil this contract may bring.

Killua starts to scratch at his arm. It hurts, he's thankful. He feels the skin building up under his nails, the sore sting of new flesh meeting the air.  
  
There are worse things to fear than death, Killua chants silently. He wants his brother right now. Illumi has a way of repressing these feelings.

He's panting. Nails scrape at his wrist, leave trails of red that will surely scar with the terrible fervor that moves his fingers so rapidly, fueled by his despair. Blood beads, drips down his arm, but he can't truly feel anything for all that he's desperate to look away from the door and remind himself that this is a job. That he must get through this as he always has.  
  
A shock rips through his head then. Sensations of migraines layer over one another and the nausea of static blindness washes over him, ceasing his movements. It's so explosively loud. Killua grips at his head, doubling over and crumpling onto the ground as the final stages of his panic run their course.  
  
Blurry images of nature, brown eyes, pale hands and fear push him to sobs, full and poignant and pathetic. His jaw hurts with the force he grits his teeth. He’s so weak, he could break any moment. Racking sobs give way to whimpers, and he shivers, from both the temperature and the repulsive ache in his chest.

  
At last, the door creaks open. Killua has already composed himself when he feels the wary gaze of one of his butlers. Sunlight from the pink dusk bathes the two silhouettes in shadow, shining at the edges, and it's surreal; his friend is limp and unconscious as he’s carried to bed, not yet even slightly aware of himself, and Killua envies him.  
  
He’s dropped onto the mattress with little regard. It's rather sad the way his soft body rolls a bit with the landing, it sends a surge of furious passion through Killua.  
  
His feet ache to move. Stand up. Go. Help him. Save him.

But though he wants to do something, anything, he absolutely can't. Illumi holds Killua by his throat in a way that doesn't mean injury.

He belongs to him. Killua often shoos hateful thoughts, they tend to show on his face and he can't avoid his brother's invasive questions. He takes no comfort in his brother's possession of him. There’s no love, no joy.  
  
There's only been one true happiness in his brief, lonely life, one uncorrupted source of light Killua has always held dear, and _he_ lies before him.  
  
But Killua chose this; he betrayed Gon, and escaping isn't something he can do. Killua takes this small opportunity at an illusion of contentment, hope. Empty feelings that warm him in a cold manner—heated the way a crowded subway is warm rather than how a fire is, but nonetheless, he holds onto them. As though Gon will see him and remember everything as it was when they were younger.  
  
Killua doubts that will be the case, though. He’s long regretted what happened, writes his sadness all over his skin, for when he lost his friend he cursed the world and found no place in it. Illumi reminded him of his birthright, and evil as it is, he's grateful for a purpose.  
  
But now, he's returned to him. And he's just like Killua remembers. His sweet Gon.  
  
Even beneath his muddy, damp clothes, Gon's discolored flesh gleams, the fresh bruises arousing a acute nostalgia in fleeting smells.

  
If he were careless, he'd lose himself to selfish desires that would have him at Gon's bedside on the floor, healing him, helping him to escape, rather than stay seated stiff so far away. Killua very much wants to. But Illumi will be here soon. So he stays where he is, obediently, telling himself it's an endeavor to protect Gon.  
  
The one that delivered him mutters niceties before stepping outside, the door clanging shut on its own. The car outside starts, drives away, and the two of them are alone now. Killua makes sure of that before lunging towards the end table at his right, searching hastily.  
  
He grunts a victorious “aha” when he finds it.  
  
Pulling out a small, leather bound book, he briefly examines it; the cover, its bind, all the clips in the material and bends at the edges. It’s been a while since he picked up this book and it shows in the age of the paper.  
  
Killua flips quickly to a blank page and searches a pencil from the cluttered drawer to scribble.  
  
He must record this. As if he were memorizing him, Killua stares at Gon, only barely visible by the grace of the moonlight. His wrist flicks with frustration at his inability to see Gon's face, yet he continues. For several minutes he captures all that he can of him in his state, down to the hair on his arms and the dirt in his shoes.  
  
With equal haste he flips the page once more and starts to write. At last he's alone, and the silence is not deafening.  
  
He fusses initially, like a magnificent work made up of ‘Gon’ is finding its path on the paper and his reference is only to be unconscious for a short time.  
  
Killua’s breathing steadies.

Between drawing the unknowing boy and writing of him, the burning ceases in Killua's arm, his migraine stalls and he loses himself in the beauty of his muse. He expends no effort, yet he leads each curve of the lead as carefully as a shepherd, and when he spells his name, three letters repeating in this pattern page upon page, he sighs, each ‘Gon’ more expressive and perfected than the one before it. He marvels in the detail that his hand creates.  
  
An hour passes, and Killua hides the journal once more, prayerful that his brother remains ignorant of its existence lest he destroy it. While the visual of Gon is reassuring, he is not safe. Killua is still waiting for the sentence. A frightening thought debuts. If it comes to Gon's life, what will Killua do?

If all goes as planned, then he hopes to die too. Killua knows his worthless life is null and void if he goes through with this job; because memories are no refuge. He shall take no solace in their tainted image if Gon dies.  
  
When the hollow door scrapes open once more, his displaced ardor fizzles. He's here, finally.  
  
Illumi enters without hurry, shuts the door, takes his time on all the locks. And yet, if Killua were not so accustomed to his presence, he would not even have noticed he was already on the couch beside him by the time the wood is settled.  
  
He sits silently, managing to rest an arm around his shoulder even in the blackness, and Killua wants to shiver. Instead, he leans into the body. A soft sigh of contentment huffs at his hair.  
  
In a low tone, Illumi asks, “Killu, what have you been up to?”  
  
“Resting, mostly.” Killua whispers into the crook of his neck.  
  
“On the job?” He clicks his tongue, half-hearted. “Has everything gone well?”  
  
Killua hesitates. He answers, “Yes.” Except, all of this is wrong. “Target delivered at 5:42,” Gon shouldn't be here. “waiting for direction to proceed.” Neither of them should.

Illumi hums. “Is there something wrong?”

“No.” Killua lies.  
  
He wilts under the sudden focus aimed at him. He knows it won't stop until he meets his brother's gaze straight on, even in the dark, for Illumi is an adept assassin and not so naïve as to believe Killua is telling the whole truth.  
  
He gulps. “What is it, nii-san?” He's more than grateful for the lack of light, his eyes would betray his overwhelming emotion and he couldn't lie his way out of that.  
  
“You're nervous. Why?”  
  
“I'm not nervous.”  
  
“Don't lie, Killu. I can feel it. Tell your brother what's on your mind.” He snakes a hand further down around Killua’s abdomen, and clutches at his shirt in a manner that borders on either affectionate or intimidating.  
  
Killua tries to squirm away from his reach. “Aniki—”  
  
"Is this about Gon?”  
  
His heart rattles in his chest at the question, he freezes. Killua knew to expect this. His brother wouldn't forget him as easily as hoped. All the same, it's not a question he can answer. So Killua turns into the half-embrace, his forehead falling onto the damp cotton of his brother's chest. It must’ve been really pouring this afternoon.  
  
“No.” He lies again.  
  
"You aren't thinking about him?"  
  
Killua nuzzles the crook of where his arm meets his torso and the hand around him coils further, trailing lower to his elbow. He hopes his lie eclipses with his distracting shows of affection.  
  
“No.”  
  
"Mm. Good." Illumi seems satisfied. How cheap.  
  
Killua has an internal ‘phew’. Quickly, he changes subjects. “Tell me about this job.”  
  
“I can't tell you much at the moment. Just be patient.” Illumi says.

Killua sighs, “You and dad never tell me anything. It's stupid.”

Illumi pets Killua’s hair as he asks, “Are you saying you know better than me or dad?”  
  
A pulse of indignation drives Killua to challenge, “No, I just think it's lame how I sit here watching the targets until you decide to show up. What even is the point in you coming?” He's shocked at his own aggressive tone. He downplays his anger, adding, “I'm perfectly capable on my own.”

Illumi seems to be thinking. “I'll keep that in mind then.”

  
He still hasn't said much about this situation at all. Even when they separated to meet here, Killua was blind about who the target was. It's only kind luck that one of his butlers mentioned his pick-up location.

He has the feeling Illumi is concealing something of importance.  
  
“I’d just like to feel more, _involved._ ” Killua reiterates. That's also a half-lie. He'd rather not have any role in this at all, but that's a desire long forgotten to obedience.

Illumi must like that he says this, he replies, “Okay.” His head comes to fall on Killua’s shoulder, nuzzling close. After a couple of silent moments, he mutters, “This is nice.”

“What?” Killua whispers.

“Being close to you.”  
  
Killua scoffs. “You say that like we don't sleep in the same bed.” There's a hopeful lilt as he asks, “Don't you get sick of being with me?”  
  
There's a miniscule shift in the cushions. Illumi takes his hope as insecurity. “Never.” He assures. He holds Killua’s face in his cold hands, angles it towards his own so that they might be face-to-face in intimate darkness. His thumbs caress Killua’s cheeks in a familiar manner. It's soft and almost nice.

“You're important to me, Killu. I love you.” Illumi says it with total conviction. Killua is lucky to have someone like this in his life. Illumi continues rubbing his thumbs against Killua's skin. “As long as you stay with me and obey, I'll always be here for you.”  
  
“Yes… always.” That's a safe response.

“Mm. C’mere.”

Killua does so, leaning closer.  
  
Illumi breathes, “Killu.” He presses smooth lips to Killua’s chapped ones. Holds them there until he needs air, and even then his passion continues. The stiff molding of his kiss is stifling, but Killua resigns to his claim.  
  
Illumi pulls back for breath, only to dive again for another kiss, coaxing his brother's mouth open with his tongue.

This isn't right, he knows. But it's not new. Killua doesn't share the same love as his brother. But he allows him to partake of his body, because, in the quiet black, he’s vulnerable, and weak.  
  
When it's too much to bear, he can imagine the pale hand drifting down his body is tan, and the lips leaving marks at his throat are inspired of a love he returns. That’s his escape. Some nights are worse than others.  
  
Some nights he locks himself in the bathroom to purge and other nights he doesn’t much care, retreating into himself as he waits for it to end. All the same, his brother is eager for his affection, and Killua is only a fly in his web, waiting to be spun, trapped and consumed. This is the way it is.  
  
“You're so soft,” Illumi whispers, kissing his neck.  
  
“Ah,” Killua mewls, turning away from his brother to face the cool air. Illumi’s hand palms his groin furiously through his pants, blood rushing to his dick against his will all too quickly and making him dizzy.  
  
Illumi widens his knees on the couch and pulls his younger brother into his lap so that his back is to his chest, and spreads his legs. Killua gasps at the blind movement, his legs are spread almost in a split for Illumi's enthusiasm. He resumes rubbing Killua through his clothes, his mouth falling open as he takes pleasure in feeling Killua lean back, rut upwards against his hand.  
  
“How does it feel?” He whispers into his ear, his hand leaving Killua’s clothed erection for only a moment to slip under his his sweats. “Tell me.” He traces his skin teasingly, secretly elated at the lack of a second layer.  
  
Killua’s soft moans are his answer, as he’d rather not in his on breathless voice give Illumi what he wants. Illumi craves more than this.  
  
“Tell me.” He repeats.  
  
“It's...good,” Killua pants.  
  
“You can do better than that.” Illumi finally takes hold of his brother's arousal. He gathers moisture from his weeping head, circling a finger at the tip. A shaky whimper leaves Killua and spurs on Illumi all the more, who forms a fist and strokes, slowly. He inches lower with a feather-light grasp, purposely teasing. “Use your voice.”  
  
“Mm—!” Killua writhes in his brother's hold, desperately trying to maintain the low volume they've managed to this point. A thought occurs to him. “Please, no more...” He shudders. His eyes open, glazed and dilated and his shame glistens on his features, but there's nothing to see in the dark. “Ah, please—!”  
  
Illumi kisses his temple and his ardor peaks at his brother's futile pleads, inciting him to fist his young cock even tighter. The wet skin produces a lewd sound and Illumi gives the smallest, cut-off groan in his throat. He seems to love every sordid detail. His erection prods at Killua's bottom.

 

He bites his lip hard in an effort to silence himself, but the taste of blood is foul and metallic and begets the whole event to be more disturbing than Killua is familiar to.  
  
As he gets closer to the end, he feels an immeasurable pity for himself. A terrifying, dead feeling that pulses in his chest. And in the throes of his shameful pleasure, he decides that he is corrupt. That he deserves every moment of this for all the wrong he's done. He broke his promise.  
  
He wants to lay next to Gon. He craves his comforting proximity, and in the simplest way he can word it, he misses him. The surge of revulsion that blooms in him knowing that he’s only ten feet away causes Killua to push at his brother's hands with renewed strength. But it instead serves to encourage Illumi, he jerks him more intensely.  
  
“Hah, please," He sobs, "stop—”  
  
“Shh. It's alright, Killu.” Illumi is enjoying every moment of this. It's evident in his heart, which beats harshly against Killua's head through his chest. “Let go.” And Killua does.  
  
He wants to cry. His orgasm is powerful, crashing, drawn out. He can't hear anything beyond his heartbeat in his ears, red and white behind his lids. He whines, heaving shaky gasps in place of the keening moan that threatens the silence. His semen pumps out hot on his skin and it seizes him to gag, though he manages not to.  
  
If it weren't for the frigid air of this shack he'd feel very nauseous indeed. The cold keeps him grounded. His brother's hand drifts away, and Killua is grateful. Though, the discomfort he feels is immense, and he still has to face the night’s agenda.  
  
“How was that?” Illumi questions gently from behind, his tone neutral, moist fingers tracing circles on his hips.  
  
Killua feels empty as he assures, “Good.”  
  
“Do you want to touch me?”  
  
Why he asks his consent after first molesting him each time, Killua isn't certain. His answer has never once changed.  
  
“No, not tonight.”

 

Killua angles his head downward, away from his brother's mouth. He could take it in the beginning, but any more of this and he'll lose face in front of his brother. Not that it would matter. Illumi knows of Killua's discomforts. He ignores them.  
  
“Okay.”  
  
Perhaps it's the fact that he leaves it open, that there's a possibility in the future one day he will agree that Illumi has never raised argument. Maybe it's that he's obviously perturbed after these encounters—and it shows—and his brother has a level of empathy within him that he doesn't gripe at his refusal.  
  
In any case, he thanks the stars that his brother makes to sit up, setting Killua aside and righting his pants for him. The material is pulled over his sensitive, limp dick and it rips a shudder from Killua.  
  
“That was fun. I’ll be back.”  
  
Illumi’s presence disappears, a door opens and clicks shut, and Killua falls onto his side. Tears gather in the corners of his eyes, overflow at long last and trail hot down his face. His lower lip trembles with his muffled grief, he only has this moment and he can't afford to break right now.  
  
Just a bit longer. Everything will be alright. He just needs to be patient. This is a kind lie.  
  
His phone vibrates from its place on the floor, giving a startling noise. Killua huffs, wipes his face and picks up his phone, flinching at the mid-level brightness and adjusting it so he won't go blind reading his messages.  
  
He taps the icon and scans the text. “..shit.” Killua curses, sniffling.  
  
**Tell your brother to answer his phone, I'm on my way now♤**  
  
He taps the bar to respond.  
  
**why in blue blazes are you coming clowndick**  
  
Why would he come? What reason could there be? Shit. His phone vibrates within seconds of sending the message.  
  
**Didn't Illumi tell you? This job is special ;}**  
  
Uhm.  
  
**tell me what? what the fuck**  
  
Killua is confused. His irritation increases when he doesn't receive another message for a few minutes. His brother hasn't returned yet either. Maybe he finally reached him.  
  
**i dont want you anywhere near me, you pasty creep**  
  
His phone alerts him quickly after that last text.  
  
**You're one to talk. And how are we to become friends otherwise, Killu? ♡**  
  
Killua cringes.  
  
**stfu. dont call me that**  
  
He sends the text and mutes his phone, flipping it over so he won't be bothered to respond to any more of his provocations. Killua stands then, and walks a memorized path to the door his brother is behind. Taking a breath, he knocks quietly. He knows his face is red from crying, but his brother will assume it's for other reasons.  
  
Within a few seconds the door clicks open, creaking slightly, dim light pouring from the doorway and his brother's head popping out from the side in a way that would be humorous if it weren't for what had just transpired between them.  
  
“Yes?” Illumi asks.  
  
“Hisoka's trying to reach you.”  
  
“I know.”  
  
“You kn—so what, are you avoiding him?”  
  
“Yes.” Illumi’s deadpan stare frustrates Killua further.  
  
“Well, talk to him, he's texting me to tell you.”  
  
Illumi brings a finger to his lip thoughtfully. “Mm. Alright.”  
  
“Thanks, jeez.” Killua makes to sit back down before remembering what he really wanted to discuss. “Wait, aniki.”  
  
The closing door swishes open again and his brother resumes his weird stance. “Yes?”  
  
Killua hesitates before speaking. “Hisoka said this job was special. Tell me what that means.”  
  
Illumi stares at him, unreadable. After a moment he stands upright in the raised doorway. This shift in posture emphasizes his next words.  
  
“The client had a unique request for this job. Gon isn't in the contract, he's to function as bait for the actual target.”  
  
There's a weight that drops within Killua like an elevator in a freefall.  
  
He can't help his voice raising as he asks, “Wait—so we're holding him?”  
  
“That's right.”  
  
Whether from elation or dread or both, Killua is reeling. “That's... So then why is Hisoka coming here?”  
  
Illumi quiets. He pulls Killua into the spare room and shuts the door, the light of the room forcing Killua’s eyes to adjust.  
  
This is a small space; a room for the occasions in this business where internet or communication beyond one’s partner is required. It's also the 'green room' for breaks between torture sessions. Illumi keeps it in good condition compared to the rest of the building.  
  
Killua takes a seat in the chair opposite Illumi, and repeats his question.

“Why is Hisoka coming?”  
  
“We're switching locations tonight. The operation takes place in York Shin a month from now. We have until then to prepare the bait and locate the target. It's all very last minute that we're moving, dad said he wants us to ‘utilize our resources’. So Hisoka's bringing the car.” He pauses to tuck a strand of long hair behind his ear. “He's also bringing food.” Illumi mumbles.  
  
“‘Prepare the bait’, what does that mean?” Killua pries. He's leaning far forward in his chair and vaguely realizes his interest exceeds that of what it should, and relaxes accordingly. Gon's young face flashes through his mind, and Killua finds difficulty in acknowledging the term Gon will fit into.  
  
‘Bait’.  
  
Illumi’s phone goes off then, as though its purpose is to intrude on the conversation and Killua curses the timing of it. He picks it up and answers.  
  
“Hisoka, where are you?” Illumi demands, as if he'd been the one ignored for some time now. "Yes. Fine." His tone harbors irritation.  
  
Killua doesn't know how to behave with this new information. His anxiety fluxes and he gets to a point during the phone call where he considers that maybe there is actually a wrong way to sit in a chair and that he's doing it.  
  
“See you in five minutes.” Hanging up, Illumi rises and scoots his chair into the desk. “I have to call and make a few preparations for the move. Killu, tie up the kid and carry him outside. Hisoka will be here soon, we have to get going.”  
  
Killua’s still stuck on the chair thing when he perks up. “Okay.” He reaches for the doorknob.  
  
“And Killu,”  
  
He looks up at his brother. “Yeah?”  
  
Illumi closes their short distance and leans down to bring him into a tight hug. “You're doing well. I'm proud of you.”  
  
“Y—yeah.” Killua brings an awkward hand around to pat him on the back. He waits for Illumi to retract, forces a smile and exits the room.  
  
Not a second after the door is closed, Killua practically teleports over to Gon.  
  
He can't help his own zeal at the moment. Gon won't die tonight.  
  
These words repeat in Killua’s brain long after he's tied his hands and feet in intricate rope knots. They’re tight, but he works precisely, intending for them to hold instead of hurt him. It's still dark, but he manages, though in this corner of the shack, moonlight seeps through slits in the boards, shines patterns on Gon's figure. It’s ever so tempting.  
  
Giving a hesitant exhale, Killua turns him onto his back—and it's as though he must make the conscious effort to breathe.  
  
Gon's middle rises and falls gently, in tempo with every other tick of the clock. Killua has it memorized by now. His split, bruised lip is hanging open and his swollen black eye shines in the pale light, there's dry blood caked in the tufts of his black hair and Killua isn't sure as to whether it's his own blood or someone else's. Beautiful, sad.  
  
Feeling intoxicated, he folds his arms in front of him and stares, his crouch on the ground unexposed and ready to jump at a moment's notice. Vexation plays on his features painfully. Killua isn't sure which overpaid fucker did this (not that he is deserving of acknowledgement), but he notes to himself to wreck the person.  
  
He feels sentimental being this close to Gon. In an impulsive move, Killua inches slowly onto the mattress, flinching at the sound of springs as it's weighed down. He holds his breath, watches for any minute reaction that would give him all the reason in the world to steal Gon away from here and run back to Whale Island.  
  
He pauses when Gon's face is perpendicular to his own.  
  
If only his eyes would open. If he would only hear Killua’s silent screams to wake up and feel the breath on his cheek, to give the slightest movement. The white-haired boy pleads to him in silence, ‘free me.’  
  
Then, as though in answer, Gon sucks in a sharp breath that startles Killua, and his left eye creaks open.  
  
Killua can't move. His eyes search Gon's lone, brown eye for signs of fear or familiarity, but there's a certain lack of sentience in it that tells him it was a fluke. He droops a bit, and gingerly closes his eye with his finger. Killua laughs to himself. Of course he's unconscious.  
  
He probably has enough sedative coursing through his blood to keep him under for the next day. Gon won't even be able to move for hours after he wakes, he'll be too weak from lack of nutrition and activity. Killua knows, because he grew up on it.  
  
Sudden bright beams of light flash through the small gaps in the boarded windows and the gravel outside crackles as Hisoka pulls up.  
  
Killua glances at Illumi’s door before picking up Gon, carrying him to the front door. He’s the right amount of heavy; lean and almost Killua’s height if not a few inches shorter, but he’s strong from years of training and finds it easy to support him. He holds Gon as a groom would, his head resting at Killua's heart, the softness of it warms him.

  
Nudging the door open, Killua shivers. Gusting wind can be heard in the trees; it bristles past the curls at his neck and rushes straight through to his bones. His skin is bumpy and he feels even worse about Gon's condition in this cold. The strong winds force Killua to pull his hoodie over his head just to be able to see through his lashes and resist the biting air.  
  
He walks to the car—a short distance, but at the moment it feels as though he couldn’t have parked farther. Hisoka steps out, somehow ignorant to the climate.  
  
“Need a hand? I've got two~” He smiles.  
  
“No, shut up.” Killua barks, stubbornly holding up the boy in his arm with one hand and a whole knee as he flings the car door open.  
  
He leans in awkwardly, laying Gon along the backseat with all the fragility of an egg carton, and sighing as the warm air that had been blasting inside moulds over him. It's thick to breathe in and if it were any less icy outside he'd complain of potential heatstroke, but right now it was all he ever needed. Though he wouldn't thank Hisoka for the consideration.  
  
Said-man closes his door and walks inside the shack at some point during Killua’s arrangement.  
  
Killua looks Gon over, disapproving of his scant amount of clothing for the temperature. He has the urge to take off his sweater and position it over him like a blanket, but the thought that Illumi would take it to heart is blaring in his mind. Surely he'd notice. Surely he'd find it annoying and suspicious that Killua would be so moved to take pity on Gon, a lowly victim, he'd assume it to be an act of rebellion.  
  
But Killua, who is in both rights fueled and nervous about this new job, decides he'll do exactly what he wants—even if only this once. For its own sake as a small detail, Killua thinks it all the more valuable that he protect Gon in the ways he can, regardless of consequence.  
  
He thinks of Gon himself, who never had a spark of hindsight in him. His memories are full of equal parts admiration and humor at his intrepid antics.  
  
A smile sneaks onto his features. It's relaxed, genuine, and he lays his sweater longwise on Gon, rubbing him through the cloth in a gesture to summon warmth. His fear is nearly forgotten at his sweet memories.  
  
Killua shuts the door, watches through the window as the car’s light inside fades out automatically. Hisoka left—probably to smell his brother or something—and Killua wonders why Illumi always brings him when he’s just so... awful. He’s strong, definitely, a good helper for certain loud operations, but there has to be another reason.  
  
It’s too cold to wait around for them, so he walks around to the other side and enters the back, sliding in awkwardly next to Gon's head.  
  
He has little room and less than one cheek on the seat, but that's okay. He shuts the door and laughs silently. He did forget there were four people here after all. Maybe Hisoka wouldn't be averse to riding in the trunk?  
  
He'd really rather not try to change Gon's position at this point. Killua sighs, leans an elbow back, facing sideways, and closes his eyes.  
  
What would it be like if his brother never came back outside? What if Killua just jumped in the driver's seat and didn't think twice? If he stole Gon away? Would they be safe? Would Gon remember?  
  
Gon shivers next to him, and it breaks Killua’s train of thought. He's so tantalizing in sleep. Killua can't help but to imagine what he'll be like once he wakes. Age is funny. He's so much older but looks exactly as Killua remembers. He wonders is his voice is deep. If he’s a man yet. Killua wants to know everything.  
  
A sudden rap at the window adjacent to his head scares him, and he scowls at the grinning magician. Ah. Maybe that's the reason Illumi keeps him around, his stupid card tricks.  
  
Hisoka makes to stand, but catches a glimpse of the unconscious boy through the window. He stops.  
  
He just stands there, longer than he must even realize because there's a strange look in his golden eyes. His face holds a blankness where there should be amusement, or lechery, or bloodlust—there's nothing, and it's so out of the norm for Killua it's as though he's a different person for that moment.  
  
But then he straightens out, quickly, and a smirk returns to him, as is habit. He slides into the car and sits behind the wheel.  
  
Hisoka chuckles, looking at Killua through the rear view mirror.

“I like this one~ Wanna trade seats?”  
  
Hell no. Killua is less uncomfortable by Hisoka's words than he is by his tone.  
  
There's an obvious weight to his gaze that pushes at the boundaries of what the mirror will reflect, it dares Killua to submit, or even better; meet his challenge so that he might have the excuse to turn around and scrutinize unconscious Gon.  
  
There's tension bristling over Hisoka now, as subtle as the goosebumps on his arms after coming in from outside.  
  
It's a state Killua can't come to terms with and just as he opens his mouth to confront it, Illumi gets in the car. As he shuts the door, all of Killua’s rising pride flies out along with the cold, leaving him timid, shivering.  
  
Hisoka's smirk widens in the slightest. He turns to Illumi, “Ready?”  
  
“Yes. We're heading to York Shin.” Illumi says, putting on his seatbelt.  
  
“Oh? I do love that city~ Your place or mine?”  
  
“Neither. We're staying at the Beichitaku.” He sends a look at Killua that says, ‘ seatbelt ’, which is funny in and of itself that he'd be concerned about such a mundane aspect of ‘safety’. Maybe he's more concerned about Hisoka's driving.  
  
He clicks it on anyway. “Wait why the hotel?” Killua interjects.  
  
“You need the practice. This is your job, your stakeout. Unless you'd rather stay at Hisoka's apartment.”  
  
“What's wrong with your apartment?” Killua asks, against that idea altogether. He didn't need another reason to feel superior.  
  
“I sold it a few months ago. I only needed it for a few contracts anyway.” Illumi faces forward, crossing a leg.  
  
“I didn't know that?”  
  
“I never told you. Shall we get going? We have an airship to catch.”  
  
“Indeed.” Hisoka drawls.  
  
He starts the engine and pulls out of the plot, driving onto the main road surrounded by nowhere and nothing. The lone shack grows smaller in the side mirrors and Killua doesn't miss it. Good riddance, for now. He remembered to take his journal, leaving the place bare in his mind.  
  
He sighs, again, resting his forehead on the cold glass and bringing his hand around to lay daringly close to Gon’s forest-thick hair, looking more curly than spiky from being weighed down by the rain.  
  
Killua would rather not stay in a hotel. Not that an apartment would be much better. He’s rarely participated in jobs that extend beyond killing the target on-sight, he should've known just from their using the old property that this contract was unique. He should've known just by who the captive was when he found out that this wouldn’t be a normal job.  
  
One month with the two adults, sharing a suite with them—its appeal is nonexistent. Their insufferable relationship and one-on-one time with either of them aside, Killua loathes the idea of stray gazes and curious chatter aimed at the 'eccentric' group of men staying in the hotel suite.  
  
And Gon... he has no idea what his brother plans to do with him.  
  
Killua closes his eyes.  
  
The moon is full and bright and the heater is making him sleepy. His limp head rolls to the right, and he can smell Gon just under him; his sweat, his clothes, his blood. It's a sweet, deep musk that he would gladly bathe in.  
  
And in a moment of pure impulse, desire: he carefully rests an arm on Gon's chest, buries his fingers in the warmth of his neck, and prays Illumi will view it as a predatory move if he sees. Indulgence smells so wonderful, and at some point, he falls asleep.

 

* * *

  
  
  
  
  
Mito sits at the table with her head in her hands.  
  
Gon should be home by now.  
  
She's tempted to go to sleep and scold him in the morning rather than stay up, but she's too worried. He's an active, fickle boy, but he's not one to leave her worrying like this. He'd call her at the very least. He should've gotten off work hours ago, maybe he went fishing or exploring after.  
  
The time reads 23:31.  
  
Her mind is loud when her phone rings louder beside her, vibrating on the wooden table and scaring the hell out of her. She huffs and chuckles at herself, picking up the phone.  
  
It's Gon's boss. There's weird twinge in her stomach.  
  
“Hello?”  
  
“ _Hey, Mito-san, sorry to disturb, I know it's late. How are ya_?” Asks the cheery static voice.  
  
“Oh I'm fine, thank you. Gon isn't home yet, was his shift at the warehouse extended?”  
  
There's a pause on the line. “ _Gon isn't at home?_ ”  
  
“No...” Mito’s heart sinks. “When did you last see him?”  
  
“ _That's why I'm calling, he never showed up this morning._ ”  
  
“He—But he left this morning…” Her lungs are heavy. “No, he...” Gon isn't at work. Where is he?  
  
" _Mito?_ "  
  
He wouldn't have lied to her. Something is wrong. “I have to go, sorry about all this.” She ends the call and shoots up from her seat, staring at her phone.  
  
What could have happened during his hour's walk to work? He's 16, not at all so naïve as to have been distracted somewhere. And it was doubtful he had injured himself so badly he was unable to help himself.  
  
She knew that boy. She raised him. Gon would never lie to her like this, he'd never fail to meet his responsibilities. Her gut wails at her, intuit insists that something is very wrong. She dials a number, more and more frustrated with each ring it takes to get through.  
  
“Stupid island service!” She curses.

Another ring.

  
“Answer. Answer.”  
  
Finally, it clicks. A gruff voice answers, “ _Hello?_ ”  
  
“Thank god! I'm sorry to wake you up but it's an emergency. I didn't know who else to call.”  
  
“ _...Mito?_ ”  
  
“Yes. Please help me, Wing.”

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading!!! I hope you read on, and enjoy this fic.


	2. Chapter 2

“Wake up, Killu. We're here.”

Illumi’s voice is a persistent alarm dragging Killua out of a sweet dream, yet he doesn't remember falling asleep. Moaning, his eyes break open—he should clean them at some point—and he's rather cold. His arm burns and itches from where he'd been scratching at it. He needs a shower, bad.

Gon isn't next to him anymore and he's fully awake when he notices the emptiness of the space to his right. His car door is open and Illumi is holding his arms out, as though to help him out like a child. Killua’s a bit unstable for the contact, so he ducks his way out, ignoring his brother's offer, blinking up at the parking lot lights that shine orange against the night sky.

“Where's Hisoka?” Killua asks, more interested in Gon's whereabouts.

Illumi shuts the door and locks the car, bringing a hand to Killua’s back and leading him into the airport. “He went ahead. They're already on the ship.”

This sends Killua into total distress, he questions, “Won't Gon wake up pretty soon?”

“Nah.” Illumi says, playing at the hair that tickles his brother's neck with his thin fingers. It makes Killua's jaw clench. “He should stay sedated until we get to the hotel. I made sure.”

Killua worries for Gon's state of health once he wakes up, but at least that's one less concern for him—Hisoka may be disgusting, but he's not desperate.

But that doesn't stop Killua from nearly jogging through security to reach the gate. He briefly considers how Hisoka managed to get an unconscious teenager through.

Since they have no luggage and are taking a privately-owned ship, it probably didn't send up any red flags to the staff, who were smart enough to know whose airship is parked in their backyard. Either that, or they're all idiots. The two Zoldycks board the aircraft, smaller than the rest that are lined up and plain in comparison when it comes to color or airline branding.

But it's that detail that lets others in their world know its pedestal ranking. They enter the seating area; a comfortable space that looks more like an extravagant living room, red and gold and white furniture that practically screams its value, its elegance.

Killua on the other hand finds it all pretty extra for how often and where they actually use it. It'd be just as well to just take public transport. Then again, his whole family is extra, so no point saying anything.

Hisoka is already there when they open the curtain, lounging with his legs up on the ‘L’ shaped sofa and Gon's head in his lap. Killua’s immediate reaction is relief, the boy's breathing is even and he's still asleep.

The secondary that rushes through him is raging discomfort at Hisoka's taunting display.

He looks up from the book he's holding and shuts it dramatically. “Hello again♢”

Illumi has a distinct sneer on his face. He heads straight to the cockpit to let the pilots know they're ready to leave.

Killua sits, choosing a spot on the sofa across from Hisoka, since 'it' would be too obvious if he sat in the narrow space between Gon's feet and the couch’s arm. He can't stand Hisoka leering at the boy cradled between his thighs, yet he's much too restrained by Illumi’s domineering presence in his mind and heart to defy it.

But the glare he aims at Hisoka wails curses, and hatred, and possession. He's half aware of how protective he must seem , and that there's a probability Hisoka will pick up on it—if he hasn't already. And yet Killua can't repress the anger welling up in him at the sight of Gon. He knows Hisoka wouldn't dare to do anything outrageous, not with his brother in such proximity, but he is an unpredictable man.

“You look like you're in a sour mood~ Didn't get enough sleep?” Hisoka gauds.

Killua remains silent, unceasing in his directed ferocity.

“I see. Then, is it him?”

Killua hesitates—his eyes widen in the smallest and that's all the lech needs. The smile he's been wearing is wider now, conniving in nature. Killua doesn't notice the long finger Hisoka rises to his mouth until it's right near his lips.

“I won't tell Illumi♢” He whispers from across the space.

His other hand moves from the book at his side to Gon’s hair, five fingers spreading, massaging his scalp ever so slowly and Killua can feel the ghost sensation of long nails scraping at his own scalp.

So he had picked up on it. And now, Killua thinks, seething through each moment of Hisoka's delicate torture—now Killua owes him.

And that was the worst possible outcome he could've hoped for. He shuts his eyes to get a grip, composes himself, and meets Hisoka's gaze.

“I know what you're doing.” Killua spits.

“And what's that~?”

“Stop fucking around, Hisoka—” Killua groans suddenly, his migraine from earlier returning at full force. “ngh—Just, leave him alone.”

Hisoka pulls the book he'd been reading from air. “Really now,”

Killua gapes at him. In a futile attempt he checks his sweater pockets for his journal. “You fuck, that's mine!” Killua makes to lunge forward but Hisoka calls his bluff, a cool expression barely masking his great amusement. Killua can't make a scene.

And Hisoka is well aware of it. “I thought you were indifferent to affection altogether, but this boy's an exception, hm?”

He opens to one of the first pages and Killua grimaces. His head is caving in.

Hisoka clears his throat, “March 2nd, 2011. Today I met a boy named Gon. He's kind of ridiculous. He smiles a lot. He's 12, like me.” He glances up at Killua. His glare is vicious, unrestrained, his nails have grown into shards from his anxiety. His hands clench into fists, over and again. And Hisoka grins. “He's really cool. He has a lot of friends, and he can fish. I think he's interesting. I'm gonna hang out with him again tomorrow.”

He flips forward a few pages and continues. “March 30th, 2011. Gon and I were together all day. It's cool because he can keep up with me. I've never had a friend like Gon.” Hisoka meets Killua’s icy gaze. “Actually, I've never had a friend before. I really wanna stay and keep hanging out with him, but aniki says we're leaving the island soon. I know it's just a vacation, but I don't ever want to leave.

“I want to stay with Gon.” Hisoka's eyebrow raises when he looks at Killua again. His eyes are watery and his cheeks are red, but his fire is _blazing_. He's in the most compromised position Hisoka's ever witnessed and it makes his collar feel tighter. “Mmm. What do I do with this information, I wonder♧”

“Hisoka,” Killua mutters. He's looking at the ground, his head bowed and features no longer visible. “Give it back.”

Hisoka grins even wider. “Of course.” He flings the book in his direction at mach speed and Killua catches it effortlessly. His hair sways at the gust of air it causes.

“Get up.” His voice is hoarse, biting.

Hisoka is beyond amused. He obeys, gently lifting the boy in his lap as he stands, then laying him back down.

“What is it you want?”

Hisoka laughs, sadism penetrating his tone. “What indeed...” He glances back to Gon on the couch, and Killua doesn't see his expression. It's devoid of amusement and something foreign swirls in his eyes. He turns back to Killua, holding a finger up, speaking in a flamboyant tone. “I know. When I think of it, I'll tell you~”

Illumi turns the corner and opens the curtain that separates this space. He pauses to eye the two of them strangely.

Hisoka chuckles fiendishly. “I have a call to make.” He folds his arms behind his head as he walks past Illumi into the hallway.

Illumi glides over quietly, watching Hisoka leave. He aims a curious look at his brother. Killua sneers, his anger defused for now. Being thoroughly humiliated by Hisoka was enough, he didn't want to answer any questions. So he looks at Illumi and shrugs in answer.

Illumi shrugs in imitation and sinks onto the loveseat sofa, bringing Killua down with him. Crossing a leg and leaning an arm along the couch, he caresses his brother's shoulders, and Killua leans his head onto his brother's rigid shoulder.

Moments like these make Killua sad. There's an indefinable split in his emotions toward his brother. During his childhood, his brother was dearest to him. They shared a close bond; out of all his family, all his siblings aside from one, he loved him and also felt loved. Until the year he started torturing Killua at the commands of their father. ‘ _To make you strong_ ’ was the only explanation he ever gave.

And it did. Killua was incredibly strong. His skills surpassed those of masters in his field, and his tolerance for pain had seemingly no limit. But Illumi’s words soothed him none, and the rift between them only grew.

Was there something he missed? And  _why_ did Illumi cross the natural boundary between siblings? He disgusts him beyond words with his touches. When arousal makes its appearance in his perfect, overbearing brother, he preys on Killua to release it. When he kisses him, his breath feels sour and acidic on his flesh, his long inky hair tangles amidst their bodies, wraps around his throat like rope.

But it hurts, because Killua craves the comfort of his brother's love. Not physically. Rather, he seeks the caring gestures that only Illumi can give. It's a sick line to cross and though it's practically nonexistent now, Killua holds a light to the bond they shared, he needs it—even through the years of abuse, he looks to his brother and he’s there, waiting for him.

If ever he were to put into words his reason, that is why Killua has always given in to Illumi. Fear of pain, fear of rejection. Fear. His brother was the only person he ever knew to treat him with genuine affection, frightening and wrong as it was. His only other friend, his younger brother he'd lost when he was young. Could he afford to lose Illumi?

A rebellious thought materializes. ‘ _Gon cares for me.’_

Yes. Gon was the only other person to show him affection. But there is no place for him in Gon's life.

Illumi sighs contentedly, reminding Killua where he is. He pulls his phone from his coat pocket.

“What time is it?” Killua asks his brother's armpit.

“4:32. The ship should arrive before 10.”

A few seconds pass before Killua answers. “Mn.” He dreads arrival. His mind is alight with the possible desires Hisoka could attempt to cash in on. Maybe he _should_ tell Illumi.. No, that would have even worse repercussions. The only thing he can do is wait. He stares at Gon's sleeping form on the couch.

His stomach growls then, once, twice. A third time for obnoxious measure and Killua has the small urge to smile at its enthusiasm. It comes as a sharp exhale and Illumi smiles as well, it's evident in his voice.

“Hungry?”

Killua smirks. "No, why?"

Illumi pokes his cheek softly, playfully. “You didn't eat in the car, so you should be. I didn't want to wake you up.”

“It feels like it's been.. years.. since I had food.” Killua's still smiling. So is Illumi.

“A couple hours, actually. I'll go see what's in the kitchen.” He pecks Killua on the lips and jumps out of his seat, gone before Killua can give an indignant scowl.

Such an innocent gesture tastes so much like corruption.

He wipes his lips with his sleeve, and sighs, deflating from the brief moment of carelessness. Left alone, there's nothing to shield him from his own loathing. Because nearly five feet away and deep asleep, his eyes return to Gon. They always do.

He whispers to the room, “I'm worthless…”

 

* * *

 

 

 

Mito lies on the futon in her living room, staring at her blurry ceiling. Her eyes are swollen and her cheeks are hot, she's hypersensitive to every sensation, every second feels more like a minute and her heart is slamming at her ribcage.

He should be here by now. Why isn't he here yet?

The office is 20 miles north, but his house is closer. It’s a small island in terms of population, but there are no cars, no highways. He'd be travelling here on foot or by beast, and even with a storm to navigate through and hours to respond it's becoming unbearable to wait any longer.

Mito stopped considering where Gon was shortly after midnight and at some point began reminiscing his youth. She said to herself during these hours, that these were the thoughts of a person who's lost someone. Gon wasn't gone. He best fucking not be. Despite her conviction she sobs harder at the image of him.

The sky outside is grey and puffy, it rains as though in empathy. Thunder booms in its grief and Mito curses the flickering electricity.

A sudden knock that rivals the thunder's volume reaches the living room. Mito sits up quickly, tying her robe and running to the door. She swings it open, “Wing, thank goodness!”

He smiles warmly, a sad crease in his eye. “Mito.”

His hair is soaked, his glasses are foggy and he's shivering, but his presence is no less commanding. Mito shakes her head, grabs him by his arm and ushers him past the porch, foregoing the process of wiping his feet on the mat. She shuts the door quickly as he sets down his umbrella and removes his dripping coat and muddy boots, politely arranging them by the entryway.

But Mito could care less for her floors right now. “Wing, I really appreciate your coming on short notice, especially with the weather. I hope you didn't walk here.”

“Er- actually,” He offers an apologetic look.

“In this storm!?” Mito scolds. Though standing at a height several inches taller than her, he flinches. “Why not horseback??” She demands.

“Well...” He scratches his head, smiling sweetly, as though it would help. In all honesty he had no other method aside from walking, but he chose not to cause her the guilt of knowing that.

Mito exhales deeply. “I’d hate for you to get sick. Sit by the fire.” She rushes to to the kitchen, setting water to boil and arranging cups for tea.

She returns to the living room holding a heavy, thick blanket, fibers and cotton bursting from the seams that reveal its age, though it’s no less warm, or comfortable. Wing is on the floor with his hands out over the fire when the weight of the blanket is thrust over him. A sigh of relief leaves his throat as he settles, already warmer. He mumbles his gratitude to the kindling.

It's silent now, but for the groaning of the house and rain, it hits the roof and raps against the windows in tune to the crackle of the struggling fire. A log pops and sparks go flying, and the sound of it is somehow warmer than the flames.

“I put tea on.”

Wing smiles. "Thank you."

“Of course.” Mito returns an attempt at a smile. She folds a stray lock of hair behind her ear, and collapses onto the futon. She doesn't realize the weight of her expectant stare, but it burns holes into Wing.

He sighs, adjusts his glasses and faces Mito. “Now that I'm here, tell me what you couldn't tell me on the phone.”

Mito shivers, a symptom of having sobbed her eyes out not too long ago. “You... you know Gon.”

“I do.”

“Y-yes of course you do, hah...” Mito seems to be looking for the words. “You know that he's a good kid. He can take care of himself. Which is why,” Mito swallows, her throat feels thick, “ I fear he's been kidnapped.”

“By someone here on the island?”

“No. Someone who came here, and left.”

“Why do you think that?” Wing asks.

“I retraced his path earlier—after the phone call, before the rain started, and,” Mito covers her mouth with her hand, “I found his bag and jacket.”

“Where, Mito?” His calming tone encourages Mito to breathe, in, out.

She hesitates. “By the pond, near the forestry that cuts into the path. It was almost,  _tossed_ into the water. I think Gon left it on purpose. Then I saw something in the field,” She interrupts herself with a dry sob, “It was just—bunched up. There was blood…” Mito can't help the sour tears falling freely. “Oh, Gon!”

“His jacket..” Wing repeats. He sits next to her on the futon and wraps an arm around her, cradling her into him. “Shh. Mito.” He lifts a finger to her chin, meeting her blurry eyes with a composed expression, though he too is upset. “You know Gon. He's a tenacious boy, his willpower alone makes him unbreakable. Wherever he is right now, I'm sure he's relatively alright.

“In fact, he probably did leave his clothes behind  as clues. He's smart like that.” Mito cries a bit harder at his words. He wipes a hand over both wet cheeks, smoothing damp hair out of her face and holding her in his grasp. It's loving and warm and Mito leans into his palm in her distress.

“We'll find him. It hasn't even been 24 hours, if I leave tonight I have a better chance of finding him sooner. But there are a few things I need from you, would you be willing to help?”

Mito gives him a weak smile. “Of course—” The kettle screams from the stove, effectively interrupting the moment. She murmurs an apology and removes herself from Wing, hurrying to the kitchen to silence the stupid thing.

While awaiting her return, Wing picks the blanket up from the floor and arranges it along the futon, appreciating the warmth it's absorbed from toasting next to the fireplace these past few minutes.

He was woken up by her phone call, and though his bed physically attempted to keep him there by force, willpower he never knew he had summoned him out of his sheets and here, hiking to Mito’s house at 3 in the morning and in the middle of a storm that really had the worst timing. It was equal parts his deep rooted fondness for the red-haired woman and his bond with her foster son that motivated him during his rush here.

By all accounts, he’d gladly endure far worse and contract a fever on her behalf. Not that she was aware of it. She didn't have to be.

Mito reenters the living room with a tray in her hands, two empty mugs and a kettle proper balancing on the metal. “Oh, I forgot the milk and sugar—”

“Wait Mito,” She turns at his call, “It's alright. I shouldn't stay too long anyway, there's a ship waiting down at the port for me.” Mito nods slowly and sits back down.

“A ship?”

“Couldn't hire a pilot in this weather.” He chuckles. “I don't have any leads, but I know someone in York Shin who can help. She's brilliant, she's helped me a lot since I became a detective.”

Mito visibly withers at her description. “But how can she help?”

“Well, to put it simply, she’s a genius. Aside from that, she has connections—a web of contacts all over York Shin and even in other countries. During my years working privately in the city, there were many cases I wanted to give up on, but she always found something.”

“I see.” Her eyes are so tired.

Wing straightens out and takes hold of her hands. “Listen. I will need your help once I leave. I’ll keep in contact with you every step of the way, and let you know when we find anything.”

Mito smiles. “Yes. I'm counting on you.” Wing smiles back, then remembers he's still holding her hands, and loosens his tight grip.

“Well, I'll go ahead and—”

“No!” Wing startles at Mito’s volume. She laughs silently, “Sorry—I meant, you have to have some tea before you leave.” Wing eyes the two mugs. “Warm up before you head back into the rain.” She adds.

Wing smirks. He rather loves the way Mito acts on her motherly habits, even to other adults. It's endearing to say the least. “Sure.” She lights up, though in comparison to her true smile it's inevitably dim. He's glad to be a distraction from her anxiety, if only for the moment. They both know there's no time to waste.

He downs a mug of tea and they say their goodbyes in the doorway. Their hug lasts moments longer than it needs to, then he throws his coat back on, shutting the door behind him. He wants to smile, but it would be bittersweet and far too empty.

He's got a kid to find.

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

“Damn, I'm tired,” Killua mutters.

He yawns into the sleeve of his sweater, wanting more than anything to skip checking in at the hotel and just be in bed asleep. He's at the point where he could easily do it standing. Waiting for the receptionist to sign them into the suite is taking too long, the marble counter becomes more tempting the longer he looks at it.

He puffs an airy breath, wiping his watery eyes. Illumi watches Killua’s whines with interest.

“Just a bit longer. We'll have a few hours to rest once we settle,” He assures, eyeing Hisoka across the lobby.

He's standing near a pillar, holding Gon in a hug above the ground with his legs hanging at his hips, his own suit jacket covering the boy and concealing his filthy, injured state. It's shrewd of Hisoka. To wandering eyes he could be seen as a sleepy child with a big name and a caring bodyguard.

Though on Killua’s end, he knows he looks out of place dressed in sweats and fussy hair, compared to his brother who's wearing a suit worth more than the penthouse they just rented. His staggering beauty only adds to his intimidating presence, and with Hisoka by his side they get too much attention.

The two men are so over the top with their fashion choices on these jobs. Killua laughs to himself, an exhaustion-induced vision of Hisoka and his brother dressed to the nines for a visit to the laundromat.

“What about G—the kid?” Killua mentally slaps himself. He shouldn't emphasize his secret feelings, if they aren't visible yet.

“Was that a burp?” Illumi asks softly.

“Hah. Maybe.” Sure, it was a burp. That works.

Illumi hums. “Hisoka will take care of it.”

“Why is it that Hisoka's been the one to handle everything with him?” Killua asks, leaning against the counter.

“Okay sir, everything is in order. Here is your key,” She slides forward a decorated card, “please allow me to lead you to the penthouse suite.” The pretty woman smiles, rising from her desk.

Illumi holds up a hand. “Actually it's fine. I know where it is.” She must be new, Killua thinks.

She nods. “Alright then. Will you be needing anything else?”

“A second key card.”

“Oh, well, actually sir we're only permitted to give out one copy at a time...” She stutters, feeling trapped by Illumi’s blank eyes. “...but I suppose this once is fine.” She smiles nervously, retrieving another copy. She slides it forward reluctantly, Illumi grabs it without hesitation and tosses it over his shoulder. He doesn't have to look, Hisoka caught it and is already looking it over.

“Thanks.” Says Illumi. Killua snickers at the woman's expression.

“O—of course. Will that be all?”

He looks at Killua inquisitively. He’s met with a sleepy frown. “Yes. C’mon, Killu.”

Killua mumbles a ‘thanks’ toward the woman and follows his brother. He'll ask his question again later. Hopefully, he'll receive an answer.

“I'm gonna shower before bed.” Killua is all too aware of the blood caked on his arm and his messy orgasm only hours earlier, and decides a change of clothes is in order as well. “Our stuff is already there right?”

“Yep. I had Gotoh send clothes over yesterday. We can just buy anything else we might need.”

“Good old Gotoh.” Killua giggles. He's really sleepy. Illumi smirks at his childish behavior.

Hisoka is already in the elevator when they turn the corner, and Killua swears he's grinning when the doors shut. The two of them wait for the next elevator.

Killua yawns again on the ride up. And again when Illumi opens the door to the suite, glaring at Hisoka as he does. It's menacing the way his cheeks puff out.

The four of them enter, and even though the suite is beautiful and luxurious and the wall is one large window with a breathtaking view, Killua has seen it all before, and though he doesn’t tire of the beauty, he has none of the energy needed to explore it and too much stress on his shoulders. He stands in the living room, waiting to see what will become of Gon. Illumi offhandedly tells Hisoka to set him on one of the sofas, and once he sees him doing exactly that, Killua bee-lines for a bathroom and starts undressing, locking the door.

He turns on the shower, inching into the hot spray, sighing. His eyes are closed for the majority of the time spent under the water, but his brain is awake and abuzz with thoughts of his friend in the other room.

When will he wake up? Where will he sleep? How will his brother treat him? What are his plans to ‘prepare’ Gon? And why does Hisoka get so much damn alone time? It's all too frustrating for his exhausted mindto try and pick apart.

Killua sputters lazily, turning the lever and exiting the shower. He grabs a white towel and dries his hair first, the damp, dense curls appearing an iridescent white in the bathroom’s lighting.

He opens the door cautiously, searching for either man. Seeing no one, he leaves the bathroom, his outfit from the past day bunched in his arms and his towel tied at his hip. Looking again, the suite is quite spacious and he wonders if the others have already chosen rooms. He heads for the master bedroom first.

He knocks twice, and he hears his brother's voice. “Come in.” Of course he got the best room.

He clicks the door open, cautiously, peeking his head into the room. “Aniki?”

“What's the matter?” Illumi looks at Killua through the mirror on his vanity. He's brushing his hair, dressed in a ridiculously fine green robe only his brother would wear without shame. It's loosely tied at the waist, and the windowof bare flesh just below Illumi's collarbones makes Killua’s nerves jump over his skin.

“Nothing. Where are my clothes?” He covers his chest with the discarded clothes in his arms, feeling self-conscious.

“In here.”

His brows furrow without his knowing. “I was hoping I could take the other room.”

“Why?” Illumi asks blankly.

“I just, feel like it,” He shrugs.

Illumi looks pensive as he holds their eye contact. “The other room is for the bait.”

Killua is starting to dislike the very word. “Well then I'll sleep in the living room.”

“Come in and close the door.” Illumi commands. He's stopped brushing his hair.

Killua stands there, silent. “I don't want to.”

“Why?”

Killua tries. He really does. But he can't fight this pressure. His eyes drop to his cold feet, toes curling on the grey tile.

“No reason.”

“Are you sick of me?” Illumi questions. There's something in his voice that bothers Killua.

“No, it's not that,” Killua flinches as he looks up, his brother is on his feet and walking towards him, intimidating even with a headband and his chest showing. Killua is guided into the room by his naked shoulder, and though the grip is gentle, it's stern, and Killua has no strength when his brother is leaning over him the way he is.

His back touches the door and Illumi’s black hair curtains around them, he further restricts his movement when he brings his large hands to Killua’s jaw. He caresses the skin with all the desire he has tingling in his pale fingers and it repulses Killua to the point of a grimace.

“Why, Killu?”

“Stop it.”

“Why don't you tell me what you're feeling?” Illumi leans down to kiss him. The dense black of his eyes meet faltering blue, challenging him even now. "I'm here for you."

Killua’s had enough. He pushes at his brother weakly “I just want some goddamn alone time! God,” He's panting, his eyes are stinging. 

His brother is by no means weaker than him, but his shock overpowers his resistance and he backs away from Killua.

“Fuck,” he cries. He holds his towel protectively, ensuring it won't slip. The fat tears collecting at his chin drip onto the tile. Killua wipes his face roughly with his arm.

“Why can't you just be normal? All I ever wanted was for you to love me!”

“I do love you,” Illumi assures. He tries to approach him again, but his movements are cold. “Killua, tell me what's wrong.”

Killua smacks his arm away.

“Don't come near me! Just,” Killua pants, “you love me, but, it's not...”

He goes silent, Illumi waits for his next words but nothing comes out. Killua chokes back a sob and runs from the room, throwing the door shut. He marches down the hallway to Hisoka's room—at least that's probably who’s occupying the only other room with a light on. He knocks harshly, quickly, expecting his brother to follow after him.

But he doesn't. Hisoka opens the door, wearing only shorts, free of makeup and hair product. He looks the most casual Killua’s ever seen him, but it's the worst time to point that out. He tries to keep focused on his face, but his height provides a closeup view of his scarred, toned abdomen. He wants to frown at the proximity.

“Yes?” He raises a brow, giving half-naked Killua a once-over. He probably heard the yelling.

“Hisoka, have you figured out what you want yet?” Killua grits.

“Is that really why you're at my door right now?

“Yes.” He knows he looks pathetic; a teenage boy in a towel, puffy eyes and tear-streaked cheeks.

Hisoka hums, leaning against the doorway. He glances into the dark loft, the dirty kid with black spikes sound asleep, and he sighs. He already knows what he wants.

When Killua returns to the room, Illumi is on the bed, hair splayed about the pillows. He sits up to face him when the door closes, but Killua ignores him as he searches the dressers for something to sleep in. He carelessly stuffs in the clothes he'd moved around and kicks the drawer shut, throwing an oversized shirt on and slipping boxers on beneath the towel.

He gathers the clothes from earlier and bundles everything, including his towel into a pile in the corner. The makings of a headache are beginning to simmer at his temples, he sighs.

Killua tries to locate the button on the wall to close the shades, because the wall-length window letting too much dawn sunlight in for him to rest properly, even through the overcast weather, and he's glad the blinds respond at his first attempt. He gets under the covers, as close to the edge as he can comfortably lay.

Illumi is still sat upright behind him on the king-size bed, staring at him. He ignores it, deciding he's too tired to deal with it. His brother seems to have a surplus of energy with how persistent he is, though.

After a solid five minutes of quiet, Illumi breaks. “Killua.”

“Not now, Illumi. I just want to sleep,” He groans into the pillow.

“I know. I'm gonna let you sleep.” Killua blinks an eye open as soft lips land a kiss on his cheek. “I love you. Rest up, we have things to do today.” He watches from his position as Illumi leaves the room, closing the door.

Killua wants to cry again. He rubs his cheek, still feeling the warmth. He doesn't sleep for another several minutes, caught up in the guilt that he upset his brother. He shouldn't have yelled. He should've just kissed him back. He tells himself he'll apologize later.

Even with just a couple hours to sleep, he really doesn't want to have to wake up. Hisoka didn't tell him what he wanted in exchange for keeping his secret, but he has a feeling it will be compromising to Gon's safety in some way.

It feels disgusting being in bed while Gon is tied up, alone. _He_ should be the one out there. His limbs wail for him to risk the sleep so that he could keep an eye on him, but he only has the will to fight it so hard. After five days awake and only 11 hours of sleep during that time, even his trained and tortured body loses consciousness before he can finish his thought.

In the depths of his exhaustion, he vaguely recognizes his brother's voice from the other room. Hisoka's too.

_“...He's waking up...”_


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> posting this literally at 1:23am, friday. I have failed each and every one of you all. and beware this chapter bounces around a bit, im at the point i cant even tell if its good or not. O well

 

 

 

Killua doesn't know what time it is when he wakes up suddenly, leaping out of his tangled sheets and throwing his bedroom door open.

He doesn't bother to look at his phone, but even if he did his heavy eyes are too blurry from sleep, and his feet are trying and failing to reach the loft without stumbling. He’s half-breathing, half-gasping at the abrupt switch in mental awareness.

All he knows is he heard Gon waking up, somewhere and at some point during his rest. Whether it had been hours or minutes, Killua has less than an inkling, for his slumber was dense and deep and lacking in dreams to put a lid over the simmering of his subconscious thoughts. His oblivion effectively diluted by the apprehension swimming in all corners of his mind, awake, always.

And yet, there is nothing—no conscious, active thoughts, no motives or fears or expectations in his head when he bursts full speed into the third room at the end of the hallway, furthest from his starting point.

He can't hear beyond the thrumming pulse in his skull and he's gasping for air now because his heart can't seem to catch up to him, and when he sees Gon sat up against the pillows, his earthy, bloodshot eye wide and bulging and _looking his way_ —the lightning shock of it sends flashbacks and memories bubbling to Killua's surface. An instantaneous culmination of remembrance to all of the purest moments from his childhood; all of them spent with Gon. He smiles brilliantly in one fleeting visual and it's enough to fall Killua unconscious once more.

He doesn't feel a thing as his body smacks the against the cold tile. Not his jaw catching on the metal of the bed frame, nor his bleeding gums or the semblance of a smile he fainted with. Hot, thick tears flow from the corners of his eyes, puddle around his flattened cheek.

Killua feels nothing at all, it's even more ‘nothing’ than a numbness; his physical body has no tingle, no sensation that tells him he even exists beyond his mind. But the ubiquitous revelation even his soul can recognize feeds him surges of sentiment; dreams without visual quality, even as his disparaged body is unavailable.

In all the unadulterated emotion, he recognizes varying truths stemmed of the same foundation; clarity streaming from his heart in white, airy ethers.

He is afraid. Relieved. _Impassioned_.

The guilt, the obsession, the lone acts of sacrifice from the very beginning had borne a zeal in him that he couldn't have measured—for how can a person measure adoration, emotion? It converges into something immensely purer altogether.

But the warmest, fiercest, all-consuming ardor at the core of him is also the frailest; of the words flying through his cranium, bolded and italicized and all too clear, _hope_ was the one he found fault in.

Killua hopes with the entirety of his being. Hopes for Gon, all of him; his future, health, friendship. His love. The daring truth of it jolts him. He hopes for _life_ , an escape from the depravity and hurt he calls family. He hopes his brother can accept his desires.

But there's too many uncertainties. Too many disappointments and failures in him to believe, and at this point the cognizance shrivels, the saccharine light between his eyes fading along with his oh-so crystalline recognition.

He's carried to a softer place by a larger set of arms, limbs adjusted like a doll’s to fit the mold of it as his nocturne composed of 'Gon' becomes more and more dissonant.

Killua will most definitely not remember the audacity, nor the glory, nor the simplicity of his desires once he regains awareness. A part of him knows he may not even understand them.

But he will feel the vestiges of love prodding in his chest long after he wakes, and for a long time after.

 

 

* * *

 

 

It hurts so much.

It's been... one.

Or—it could have been two...

Gon doesn't know for sure how much time has passed since his abduction. He can feel the effects of extended sedation and it's horribly painful how poorly his body is responding, he's much too calm for how he'd like to be but it's all against his will.

His throat is hoarse. He tried speaking—and thought about screaming—but it was so mute he hardly heard himself. He’s so hungry that his stomach feels like it's caved in.

His vision in his right eye is blurry, the other is swollen and entirely useless, there's muck in his lashes and even with his eagle-eye sight, he can't see the men interchanging warbled remarks about his state. He doesn't recognize their voices, nor does he hear any sounds that would serve as clues to him about his location. Gon knows he's not on Whale Island anymore, because there's artificial heat blasting air through vents far up on the wall above his headboard and the lights in this place are blinding white.

The pain in his eye, the crippling scorch that licks at his brain and the aches in his stiff, sprained limbs come to life, burning anew, as though his awareness of them is their permission to hurt.

And yet, beyond his body, there's luxury and vibrancy, the sheets beneath him are the softest he's ever touched.

It's cold, and foreign, and he's absolutely _terrified_. Gon is caught between a dreadful expression and the pervasive grief working into his features, gathering in his tear ducts.

But even that’s painful because his mouth is chapped and there's a split in his bottom lip, and he feels the skin ripping when he grimaces.

Bowing his head, the frightening sight of his tears falling onto dirtied green shorts he's long cherished for several sweet years worth of memories gives him the most disgusting taste in his mouth. Gon mourns his own loss for his mother. She's undoubtedly suffering because he never made it home, and he's sorry. He's so sorry. He wasn't strong enough.

There's an abrupt crash against wood, a door slamming open not far from here. By the time he raises his head there's a third stranger standing in the doorway.

Where the others are blurs of black and their auras are blotted with streaks of sadism and chaos, this one is a smaller, white blur, urgent in intent, but there's a noteworthy lack of danger to his presence and Gon feels him staring so intensely it feels like minutes have passed.

And then he... faints. There's a _smack,_ the bed tremors a bit as he falls, probably face-first. His startling entrance (and exit) distracts a weak Gon from the numerous questions, the inestimable distress developing in his throat.

His terror of the unknown abates, only slightly, very briefly.

With all the strength he has, he rasps to the room, “Who is that?”

He doesn't recognize his own voice. He bgins to consider he never said anything at all, because an answer never comes.

One of the two rushes to the boy, bringing him into his arms and leaving the room, going beyond the distance Gon can make out clearly. Now that the door is open, the windows from the other room allow cascading light to whiten the surfaces it reaches. They're tall and bright and he can vaguely see city buildings. Which city, he hasn't an idea.

Wriggling with all his might to catch a clearer glimpse, he activates a very sudden and  _incredible_ urge to use the bathroom. And it's probably evident on his face because one of his captors, the chaotic one, chuckles.

“Do you need to use the bathroom?”

Gon nods blindly, frowning. This guy must be a mind reader.

“I would think so. You've somehow managed to hold it for the last 16 hours.” Gon cringes at the thought that he'd pissed himself while unconscious in their presence. God forbid.

“Well,” says the man, bringing Gon into his arms with little effort, “we'll fix you up soon, _Gon-kun_.” He walks around the left side of the bed and into an adjacent bathroom.

Gon is certain his face is betraying his thoughts because the man then says, “Ah, you’re curious as to how I know your name~ Not to worry. You and I know each other well. Trust that I won't harm you,” He must be amused, he cruelly adds, “without cause.”

Gon responds as he would to any threat: with a stubborn glare. He instinctively clenches the man's shoulder, albeit weakly, when he bends to set him on the toilet. His shorts are still on and the guy is still holding on to him.

He can't seriously expect Gon to just, go?

“Need help with these?” He whispers, pointing to his shorts, “Or do you think you can do it?”

Gon nods firmly. Perhaps his dominance was conveyed because the other nods in return and sits on the edge of the tub, turning his head away. It's as close to privacy as it's gonna get and his bladder is wailing at him to get this going, so Gon begins to shimmy his shorts off. Only, it's more of a struggle for movement and balance, his button just won't come undone, and his fingers are as cooperative as they'd be if they were ice cold; slow and unsteady and unable to grip.

He's only gotten his shorts down as far as his hips when he nearly falls off the toilet, gripping the seat for support.

“I won't look, you know.”

Gon shoots a wary glance to the man in front of him.

His face is imperceptible from this short distance. Gon can see his black suspenders and the ivory shirt sleeves rolled up to his elbows. Pinstripe bottoms stand out nearly as much as his skin does, it's pale—white almost, as though painted that way, and his hair is a vulgar shade of red. Chaos personified. There is a muted vibe to his true nature and Gon doesn't feel amiss when he concludes that this man is dangerous.

And yet, Gon must hold some use to him, because his behaviour isn't sinister in the least, nor is it restrained.

He considers the offer seriously, because he's on the verge of pissing himself and he's not sure it'll end there. Gon huffs, and looking away, he croaks, “Fine.”

His rebellious button is undone.

Large hands come to rest at his clothed hips, dagger-like nails digging into the belt and very gently tugging downward. His nails grate against an erogenous zone at Gon's flesh and he gasps. His underwear comes off along with the shorts, the cold air on his privates jolts him to attempt to cover himself.

Part of his instinctive response is to spin his head forward. He sort of wishes he hadn't.

The man is staring right back at him. He's gotten closer. Clearer. His half-lidded eyes are a flaring gold and it freezes Gon, holds him captive as his bottoms slide down his legs, removed from his ankles altogether and piled on the bathroom tile. It's utterly unnerving.

Then, in the worst timing ever: Gon starts to pee. And there are no noises to muffle its audible impact within the ridiculously acoustic bathroom.

He feels his cheeks growing warm. This entire situation has become so embarrassing so quickly, and he feels nothing but shame as he’s held to the intense eye contact with the stranger, his urination echoing against the walls.

But it's strange; he isn't smiling. There's no teasing, condescending look in his eyes, only intrigue. Gon can't decide whether that's worse.

When he's finished (and it takes a solid minute), the man starts running a bath. Then he begins undoing the laces on Gon's boots. Gon tries to snake his foot away, sending a questioning look to his offender.

In return he looks up at Gon, holding tight to his left foot. “Are you so afraid of me?”

Gon doesn't know how to respond. He's… indignant? No, that's not the right word. ‘Uncomfortable’ functions well enough. He doesn't attempt to speak a word as the man removes the shoes from each of his feet; he only glowers at the grand creature kneeling in front of him on the bathroom tile, willing his abhorrence toward him in myriads.

His gentle handling of him suggests to Gon that he’d become involved in something greater than he could've conceived, because only a complete maniac would treat their victims with this much sincerity, if not insanity.

A maniac or a friend. Or a pervert.

The room is steaming now. Gon coughs dryly, his diaphragm convulsing at the force. His throat itches and he can hear himself wheezing in the smallest.

A voice calls from another room.

“Hisoka!”

The man scowls over his shoulder, sighing. So that's his name.

He shuts the water off just as it nears full, and grabs a hand towel and a small bottle of (assumingly) shampoo from the countertop. He sets them neatly by the side of the tub.

He stands at his full height, “The bath is yours.” The melody in his words is low, playful, somehow. He exits the bathroom, leaving the door slightly ajar.

How cruel! As if Gon had the capability let alone priority to bathe himself at the moment. He's half-naked on the toilet, freezing and unsteady, like all of his limbs have gone numb and forgotten what sensory pressure is. He tries so hard to stand up, but he collapses.

He's panting harshly, wheezing. He leans against the ceramic with his legs splayed about, considering what his next move is. He's in so much pain. Then—

“Just kidding♧” The stranger grins, walking right back in. He has a few bottles of water and folded clothes in his arm. “Did you fall?” He kneels down to Gon's level, who shields his groin modestly.

“Honestly, I said I wouldn’t look~” He insists, opening a water and holding it up to his lips.

Gon is quite literally dying of thirst, but his pride convinces him to sneer at the offering.

The stranger—Hisoka only smiles. “Suit yourself.” He recaps the bottle and sets it on the edge of the tub. “Now then,” He sits back on his heels, “let’s get you in the bath, hm?”

Gon couldn't spit a curse at him even if he dared to. He remains silent, which is tormenting all the same. One of his hands fists at his shirt protectively.

“You can keep it on, I don't care.” He rips a hollow gasp from Gon when he picks him up and lowers him into the scalding bathwater.

Gon shouts in surprise, scraping his vocal cords at the exertion. It only takes a moment before he sinks further in on his own, releasing the breath he wasn’t aware he’d been holding. The steaming water feels so nice on his sore body.

He sinks further. And a little further. Too far. A hand hooks beneath his armpit and yanks him back above the surface.

“Enthusiastic, aren't you.”

Gon frowns deeply, batting wet eyelashes.

“Stay still now.” Hisoka  dunks a cup into the water, lightly pouring it over Gon's head. The water increases its density, his thick hair curling around the frame of his face and making him feel more like a child than ever.

He's seething internally. He's so pitiful, he hates it. He hates everything about this.

Hisoka nearly empties the pearly shampoo onto Gon's head for how small the bottle is, and begins scrubbing it into his hair. It lathers nicely, he gently scratches at his scalp and it feels like a massage. Gon is loathe to the fact that it’s meant as a calming gesture.

The fingers at his head pause every so often to pick gunk out of his hair or detangle a particularly bad knot. “Your hair is positively rebellious.” Hisoka mutters, poking a sharp nail through a chunk of matted hair.

Combing through the spikes, he pours another cup of water over him, taking care not to get the soapy water in Gon's eyes. Bubbles and lather rinse away, and in this lighting his hair tints a deep green where it shines. Gon is still blushing. Goodness, Mito used to give him this type of treatment. When he was four.

“Thirsty yet?” Gon refuses to answer. “You'll die soon enough if you keep that attitude.”

The austerity of Hisoka's tone reminds him again of his horrid state for the umpteenth time in the last hour. But his hubris serves as a fault rather than a virtue, he turns a cheek to Hisoka's second offering. His assumed predilection towards death would appear blatant, were it not for the emphatic rumbling his stomach decides to give right then.

_Pathetic._

Hisoka laughs softly. “So you are human~ Food is on its way. Maybe you'll be more inclined to eat once you can smell it.”

Gon becomes fed up with his annoying remarks and scoffs, glaring at the bathwater.

Hisoka looks at Gon seriously. “I know it isn't in your nature to be anything but stubborn, _Gon_ , but I don't intend to allow you to starve yourself out of selfishness.” He lets the cup fall to the water, splashing a bit, bobbing as it floats. “I'm sure you're aware that I could keep you nourished by other means, against your will. But as I haven't done that, it must mean I desire you to act on your own.”

More and more, Gon has the impression that Hisoka has a devil's tongue. It snakes around his head, slithers into his ear.

He's whispering now, “Surely you know how little the effect your efforts to resist have. You must stay alive, Gon.” It latches onto his weakness. “Unless you'd rather die as you are now?”

No.

It won't do for Gon to die here, as the weak captive who never put up a fight.

When he was a bit younger, if in this situation he would no doubt have made intrepid efforts on behalf of his pride to refute every possible offer for help, attempt escape at every given opportunity—because it was simply in his nature to do so. But he's gained a bit of wisdom from his encounters with danger.

Vague illusions of a life he doesn't remember swarm his mind, and he feels sorrow for the nonexistent memory. He died once, in his dreams. It was cold, and pointless, and he withered away all alone.

He has so much to risk his life for, but it would be worth nothing for him to waste his death now. He has to get out of this, or die trying.

Inferno swirls in the hazel of his eyes as he very slowly acquiesces. Hisoka looks a bit taken, then he smirks, uncapping a bottle and holding it to Gon's lips. Not a full minute passes and Gon gulps it all, panting lightly when the bottle crushes in on itself from the pressure.

“..More.” He grits.

Hisoka grins. He tosses the empty, crinkled plastic with a hollow bounce and repeats the cycle with another water. And another. Four bottles litter the tile and Gon isn't satisfied. A burp gurgles from his throat, and Hisoka is smug.

“Better?”

Yes. So much better. He needs strength to escape. And right now, he needs food.

His pain is still there, but it’s somewhat of a background noise after his tenacious resolution. He's able to wiggle his toes freely now, and even his fingers are responding to his brain’s commands to move in complex patterns with ease, he practices beneath the water. His rapidly returning strength might be worth concealing, Gon decides.

Hisoka pushes a silver knob on the wall, draining the tub. Gon is still bruised all over, yellows and greens and deep purples that disrupt the warm tan of his skin, but he can't be called dirty. He pulls up his legs to hide his groin, constrained in movement, as though it takes more effort than he has. He's never been a good liar, but he's confident.

Hisoka pulls him up by his arms for him to stand, and Gon swears he catches him sending a very focused glance to his groin.

“Hey!” Gon rasps. “You said you wouldn't...”

Hisoka grins unabashedly, throwing a towel around Gon's shoulders.

“I lied♤”

Gon's cheeks darken as he withholds his staggering expression. How indecent.

_Disgusting._

His soaked shirt is spreading moisture to the cloth of the towel, so Hisoka pulls it over Gon's head before he can resist. He shivers at the air coming in fresh contact with his torso, it's a chilling contrast to the water. He has a slim urge to retreat back into the bath.

“You can stand well enough now, can't you?”

Hisoka says that so knowingly that Gon wavers in his façade.

“You're a fast healer.” He notes, gold irises flashing. Distant.

Gon scrutinizes the pale man with his good eye as he capes the towel around himself, teeth chattering.

“These are for you,” Hisoka sets the folded clothes in a pile on the toilet’s cover, “hand-me-downs if you will~”

Gon eyes them. He mumbles, “Hisoka.”

His expression sobers in the smallest at the use of his name. “Yes?”

“Why am I here?”

There's a beat. “You’ll find out soon enough.” He makes a point to eye the clothes and then Gon, as if to say, ‘Get dressed’. Then he leaves.

Gon shivers, gripping the towel tightly and covering every bit of bare skin he can. He exhales, and sits on the edge of the tub. Picking up the faded blue tank propped on the toilet, he slips it over his head, and follows with an equally plain pair of black shorts that reach a few inches above his knees. He doesn't realize that he pulls the shorts up to his waist, or that he tucks in the shirt by habit.

He scrubs the towel over his hair roughly, unconcerned for how it will dry, and drops it unceremoniously to the floor.

He takes a moment to psych himself up before he leaves the bathroom. Actually, Gon sits there for several minutes, thinking. He feels his temperature return to normal as the steam dissipates. 

Absently, he regards every opulent detail of the bathroom. The extravagant detail in the marble of the counter, the detailing in the carved mirror frames, the ritzy lighting. They all proclaim its grandiose in a most unsubtle manner. And this is just a bathroom.

He considers breaking the mirror. Use the glass shards. But no, too many risks. Maybe, he could lock himself in here long enough to climb down the building from the small window adjacent to the door.

Pattering to the window and standing on his tiptoes, he is faced with a minimum of 15 stories to descend from.

Gon knows he is well capable of the feat. But he doesn't trust his body to respond as quickly as would be necessary, and tells himself, ‘not now.’

Hisoka's presence in the other room gnaws at him, makes him anxious—like he's fully aware of Gon, what he might do, is doing.

He had made a point to care for his needs, but why is he being kept alive at all? Gon can’t deny himself the intense, terrible foreboding that swims in his gut. He is most definitely afraid. But at the same time, and more than anything he rightfully should be, he's insatiably curious.

What is his purpose in all of this? Who are his captors? How long can he risk staying here?

Another questions stabs into his conscious, as if he'd forgotten something of great importance and was only now aware of it.

Who was the boy?

His curiosity steals priority from the fear, and he decides that before he runs, he'll be sure of himself. He found it difficult to hate someone who so easily offered preservation, or sympathy, for that matter. There is too much Gon doesn't know, and it eats at him.

Standing with a resolute motion in his heart and painted in his expression, he walks—limps, really—out into the bedroom. He grabs the doorway for balance and throws his meanest stare to Hisoka, who is sat on the bed, glancing up from his nails to send him a look that's heavier than his own glare, feels like it could rip holes in his borrowed clothes.

Can Gon do this after all?

A phone vibrates on the puffy comforter, and Hisoka checks it, disinterested.

A _phone_.

Gon sets up a counter in his head for all of the phones he should see. It's possible he could sneak away from his captors’ eyes long enough to call for help, should the opportunity arise. He withholds a premature sense of relief. He thinks of Mito, who's probably already alerted the authorities.

“Gon~”

He refocuses his sight on Hisoka.

“You must be starving. Let's go and eat, hm?”

He can do this. He can escape. He has to.

 

* * *

 

 

Illumi sets Killua onto the sofa gently, taking care not to move his head too much. Moving him may not have been smart, considering he may have sustained a concussion, but with the awakened kid in the other room, he found it necessary.

He rushes to the master bathroom, locating a small first-aid kit beneath the sink that's posted there for obligatory purposes (after their last few stays in this hotel). He grabs the pile of hand towels sitting between the sinks as well, returning to Killua and kneeling beside him on the floor.

Looking at the excess of blood pooling in Killu’s mouth and dripping from the sides, he realizes something. He calls for Hisoka.

“Lend me a shirt.” He demands when he finally comes into view.

His immaculately arched brow twitches, “Did you forget to pack your own?”

“I don't want blood on my clothes.” says Illumi, point blank.

Hisoka and Illumi respectively scowl at each other in their own comfortable ways, until Hisoka tosses him a dress shirt from his own room. “You're lucky I'm attracted to you.”

“That’s not much of a compliment. You’re attracted to pancakes.” Illumi mutters back, removing his own top and throwing on the expendable one. It’s a bit loose-fitting, and has a lingering, sugary sort of smell that Illumi definitely recognizes to be Hisoka's. He scrunches his nose.

Hisoka makes some kind of remark as he retreats to the other room but Illumi doesn't try to listen to what he has to say.

He’s far more concerned with his brother. There's something very wrong with Killua’s health for him to have the episode he did just a few minutes ago. Not to mention, the way he landed on his face, cracking a tooth and ripping some of his gums upon impact.

Illumi collects his long hair up and out of his face, tying it into a fat, messy bun. There are many loose strands of hair but his compulsion to fix it is overridden by the sudden retches from Killu.

Using the small towels, he soaks up the blood that's collected in Killua's open mouth. Some of it he's swallowed and a lot of it is on his shirt. Illumi exchanges one towel for another, absentmindedly wondering how the cleaning staff intend to sanitize the towels of the copious amounts of blood that have all but dyed the material.

In a tagent thought, he takes note of just how _tired_ Killua looks. Illumi might feel responsible in some way, but it bothers him none.

He lets the towel reach under his brother's tongue and then further into his mouth, inciting another gag from the unconscious boy.

Illumi moves on, satisfied with the lessening amount of red seeping from his gums. He sits Killua up even straighter, pouring water down his throat in a steady, light stream. Then he inserts an oral thermometer he'd found in the first-aid kit; it reads 99.3° F. So it's not a fever. This bothers him.

“Hm.” Illumi reaches for his phone and is about to dial the family doctor—but comes to the decision he's better off to wait and find out what Killua has to say on the matter.

A glob of red saliva slides off his plump bottom lip to splat onto his shirt, and soaks right through the cotton.

If it wasn't a fever, and there was no emergency, why did he behave so erratically? Maybe he had a nightmare and came searching for Illumi. Or maybe he had forgotten something important. But even if any of these were the case, why did he faint? And more intriguingly, why did he look so…

He ponders for the word.

It’s ‘happy’.

When was the last time he saw his brother wearing such a look? Illumi can't recall. The situation and the search for a memory brings a sweet moment to mind.

Killua had been so excited, having rushed straight to Illumi to tell him about what had happened.

 _“Look Illu-nii! I lost my tooth! Look!”_ He said, bounding up and down on his little feet, trying so hard to show Illumi his fallen tooth. He'd been playing outside, his pants were muddied and his hair was dirty and he'd probably lost it in his activity.

When Illumi kneeled down to his level, he allowed Killua to thrust his small tooth into his cupped hands. It had been slightly discolored from all the candy he snuck on a regular basis, and was even a little bloody, but he felt loved and wanted and absolutely ecstatic at the fact his little brother had rushed to deliver such a mundane piece of information, and accepted the tooth with gratitude.

 _“Does it hurt?”_ He asked.

 _“No,”_ Killua said, prodding his curious tongue at the newly freed space in his gums, _“but it kind of itches.”_

 _“I see.”_ Illumi looked back down at the tooth. _“May I keep this?”_

Killua giggled. _“Sure, silly nii-san.”_

Illumi smiles fondly, a rare one reserved for his sweet sibling. He wipes the colored spit from the corners of his brother's mouth, pecking softly where he'd cleaned.

He’s so content with the way things are. So why isn't Killua?

“Mm…”

Illumi glances up at his brother, who is wincing. The pain in his mouth has urged him awake, no doubt.

Illumi decides just to ask him what happened in the bedroom.

Killu groans as he comes to, cutting himself off with a sharp whine. “Ugh… Illumi?”

“Yes?” Illumi sits on the couch beside him, kicking away the plastic trash and messy towels as he does. “How do you feel?”

Killua sits up, breathing sharply. He grunts, bringing a curious hand to his swollen jaw. “Ow.”

“Does it feel like a concussion?”

Killua shakes his head ‘no’, taking solid, even breaths for a few moments to compose himself.

“No, not really. But—” Killua seethes, “Jeez, my mouth hurts…”

“What happened?”

Killua freezes.

“Killu?” Illumi angles his face sideways to meet his downcast eyes. “Why did you faint? Is there something wrong?”

“No, aniki, it's just—”

“You can tell me.”

"Right... it's funny, actually,"

“Just don't lie to me, Killu.”

Though Illumi says this, he doubts the mere existence of the possibility. Killua would never dare to lie to him. He loves him.

And yet. Something in his middle is twisting when Killua speaks.

“I woke up because I wanted to apologize to you for earlier.” Killua says seriously. Illumi feels calmer at the admission. “I think I fainted because,”

Illumi waits on his pause. And waits. “because…” And a little longer. Surely Killua has a reason?

“I haven't really eaten much and I was dizzy from jumping out of bed so quick!” He laughs, bringing a finger to scratch at his cheek. He seems distracted by something.

Illumi ponders his response. “If that's the case, you should be eating less chocolate and more healthy food.” Killua goes noticeably pale. “I've been lenient but if you've started fainting, It's important to—”

“Wait a minute!” Killua blurts. “Wait, on second thought, it's not the chocolate.”

“Really.”

“Yes.”

They hold very serious eye contact for several moments. Then Illumi chuckles genuinely. “You're so cute, Killu.” He ruffles his brother's hair, oblivious to his glare. “But yeah, no more chocolate.”

Killua looks devastated. “Nii-san, please. _Please._ ”

“No more chocolate,” Illumi repeats, “in fact, you should get back to your training regimen. You were doing so well with your diet.”

“You can't take that away from me!” He challenges with a playful yet desperate smile. But it doesn't quite reach his eyes. His eyes dart to the door across the loft.

Illumi stands suddenly, “I'll order some room service, we can have fish and salad tonight.” He turns to walk toward the tablet/phone posted to a wall in the loft.

“Were you going to feed _him_?” Killua asks quietly.

Illumi halts. He glances over his shoulder. “Yes, I was. He hasn't eaten in two days.”

It's a visible tension that leaves Killua. This bothers Illumi a bit.

“Are you concerned for him?”

“Yes.” Killua answers honestly. Illumi turns around fully. Killu continues, “It wouldn't do well for him to die before he's useful, would it?”

Illumi likes this answer. So much in fact that he disregards Killua's strained tone. “I agree. What a good thought.” He notices Killua rubbing at his jaw as he casts his eyes away.

“We don't have to meet with the client until Saturday, he had pressing matters to deal with. You don't have a choice, so just rest until then. I'll have someone come to fix your teeth.”

Killua scoffs slightly, looking barely offended. “You say ‘teeth’ like I have none left.”

“I'll have someone come to look into making you denchers.” Illumi deadpans. He finds his joke funny, but Killua’s expression holds no sign of mirth.

“...Illumi?”

“Yes, Killu?”

“Thanks.”

Illumi responds softly. He goes to hug Killua, unaware of the way he stiffens upon the contact.

“Illumi?”

“Yes?”

Killua hesitates. “I'm sorry for getting upset earlier.”

Illumi remembers Killua’s behavior. He looked so terrified, so angry. “Why were you upset?”

“I—I told you why.”

Illumi holds him in the hug, staring at the wall beyond his shoulder. It feels…

He considers how it feels, exactly.

‘Empty’. ‘Cold’.

He releases Killua, and walks toward the phone again. He dials the service directory and places orders for dinners suited to the two whose tastes he is familiar with. He orders something generic for the extra body, and soup for his brother whose mouth is incapacitated for the act of chewing, then he hangs up the phone.

“Illumi?” Killua calls, hesitant.

Illumi doesn't turn around. “Yes?”

“Wanna watch something?”

Illumi is taken by surprise by his offer. He very much likes the idea of spending time with his brother. Albeit the watching tv part, which sounds tedious at best. He considers that he has work to do, even with the setbacks that afford him time to mull about. And yet.

He tries to recall the last time his brother made an attempt like this to hang out, but can't find an instance in the recent past. Sparing a look towards Killua, Illumi knows he would rather watch tv with him than work out the details to kill someone.

He rather loves the flaring allure his brother carries, especially now as he's leaning forward on his hands with eagerness, clad in an oversized, bloodied shirt, and looking at Illumi as though he himself holds every single desire he could ever birth just above his head.

As if Illumi is the only person capable of knowing him. Of pleasing him.

He sees traces of desire swirling in the depths of his ocean eyes. Killua loves him. They are in love, and he is so ethereal basking in the morning light, his blood having left trails down his face that send a surge of heat to Illumi’s groin and heart all at once.

Perfect. An incandescent comfort reflecting in him from the inside out. His innate purity never fails to shine through the morbid seasoning Illumi takes such pride in.

He shaped his brother, a pygmalion to a heavenly-sculpted child of beating heart and warm flesh, and is so attached to the result of his labor. He both reveres and posesses him, body and mind, there's nothing in the world that can eclipse his passion. He was born to protect Killua, and yet Killua has saved him countless times since his birth. 

His mere existence is Illumi’s reason. For what, there's no word. But nothing else matters. He is and will be devoted, always.

“Sure.” Illumi replies after a minute.

Killua smiles, but for the second time, it doesn't feel whole. Illumi wonders if he is still upset about last night.

Killua stands to retrieve the remote for the tv, sitting back down and then looking himself over, like he's just become aware of his messy state. He runs to the room where his clothes are. Killua comes out moments later in a new outfit for the day, then washes his mouth in the kitchen’s sink, gargling a bit to purify it of the taste of blood.

He flicks his hands of moisture instead of drying them with a towel. He wanders over to stand in front of the third room door in a seemingly careless manner, but Illumi doesn't miss the calculation in his steps.

“I'm gonna go in really quick.” Killua says, opening the door before Illumi has even a second to respond.

Illumi doesn't like this. His brother's behavior is distracted, unfamiliar, almost rebellious and secretive. He goes over to the room himself and walks in, watching his brother stare at Hisoka on the bed.

“Where is he?” Killua questions.

“He needed to use the bathroom.” Hisoka smiles.

“Oh.”

“Did you need something?” He prods.

“No, I,” Killua sighs, deeply, “I was just curious.”

“Curiosity is dangerous, Killu.” Interrupts Illumi.

Killua looks at him, and for the briefest of moments Illumi can swear there's spite in his gaze. “Uh huh.” He trudges back to the sofa and falls into it, taking care to step over the mess on the floor.

Illumi knows what he has to do. This attitude could become problematic. He decides he'll have a lesson later this week on behavior.

He imitates his brother, falling into the cushions alongside Killu, reaching an arm across his shoulders just as he turns on the tv and starts flipping through channels. Illumi brings out his phone and texts the Zoldyck health specialist, telling her what happened. She replies that she'll be in town tomorrow to look at Killua.

“Want something to drink while we wait for the food?”

Killua bristles. “Huh? Oh sure.”

Illumi retrieves a soda from the already stocked fridge—the Zoldyck butlers truly were useful—and hands it to Killua, taking his seat once more as the bottlecap pops off and flies across the room.

Killua stops changing channels for a moment.

On the television, news anchors babble, cherry-flavored remarks about sad and cutesy stories alike; a vaccination movement, a talented dog that ‘has taken the community by storm’, ‘mysterious cult activity’ on the east side of York Shin, a bad health inspection at a local bar. Various news stories all ranging from ridiculous to pointless. But then, neither Zoldyck expects much accuracy or substance from Foxbear News.

A name catches Killua's attention at the subtitle bar—among the numerous counts of petty crime and updates on amber alerts, there's a mention of a kidnapping that had taken place on Whale Island. ‘Gon Freecss’ appears in the subtitle bar, followed by a description and date of abduction  and Killua nearly chokes on his soda. It's not particularly shocking, but his reaction disturbs Illumi.

“Anything you wanted to see, Killu?” asks Illumi, resting his head on Killua’s poofy bedhead. His bun droops with the gravity.

“Nothing in particular…”

Killua flips the channels for a while, but he eventually returns to the news; a different source this time. A blonde, cheery politician is giving a speech, making vague, rehearsed promises to ‘clean up York Shin and return it to its former glory’, then hurrying offstage before the press can ask questions. The Zoldyck brothers watch the blonde with a blank and skeptical expression respectively.

Illumi points at the tv, “That's him, you know.”

Killua furrows his brows. “Who?” He scans the attending audience on the screen.

“The client. Pariston Hill.”

Killua turns to him with a curious look. "I've heard that name somewhere."

There's a knock at the door.

 

 

 


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> im so sorry.........im a soggy piece of toast.... here's chapter 4! *cries* it was so hard to begin but it wrote itself towards the end :") i suck; listen buds, i will finish this if i lose a hand.
> 
> Enjoy this chapter

 

 

Gon follows Hisoka out into the loft, limping slightly.

It's so much brighter out here, the wall-length window forcing him to shield his eyes from the pervasive morning light. It's a November dawn; white sunlight is tinted blue by the overcast sky, it softens the atmosphere in an unfitting manner.

His heart is pounding. This place is large, more so than he’d have thought. At first overwhelming glance around, the furniture is exquisite, there's an enormous  flat screen playing news stories across the way and two strangers sit on the sofa together. One with a bun and one with white hair—the boy from earlier.

Gon stares at the tufts of hair, searching for the answer to his earlier ignored question in the blue and pink shadows of his curls. The two of them chat softly, closely, and Gon is still planted in the doorway of the room.

There's a knock at the door. “Room service!” calls a polite voice. Gon's eyes locate the source and commit it to memory.

He opens his mouth to call for help but a cold hand clamps over his face. It's sudden and rough and its knife-like nails scratch red lines across his skin.

“You know better,” purrs Hisoka.

“I'll get the door,” says the black-haired one from the couch, rising. And as he passes, he spares not even a look towards Gon. It infuriates him on levels he can't comprehend.

“Scream and I'll hurt you.” Hisoka's hot breath on his ear gives Gon goosebumps. He releases his face with a moist ‘pwah’, and as he gasps for air he catches Hisoka licking his fingers.

It would taste a lie for him to say that wasn't a push towards the barriers of his mental fortitude.

Gon has no idea what will happen from here on out. His fear is overwhelming, but it serves to boil his pride all the more. He begins premeditating his escape, giving full control to instinct.

Looking around again with serious intent, he searches out anything, anything at all that may help him. A hotel phone. A fire alarm. The massive windows cannot be opened, maybe they can be broken. Doubtful.

A trolley is rolled into the room, covered trays and various foods piled upon it in sumptuous decor, and disinterested Hisoka walks off to the side. Yawning into a manicured hand, he once again checks his phone, slides into a chair at the table, leisurely crossing a leg, and still, Gon remains in the doorway. He wipes his face of pearling blood and  saliva.

“...As for the cult activity sightings, we've received a number of reports from all over the city, all citing similar claims.”

Gon catches that lone piece of news. His attention is pulled, trying to find a good place to see the screen.

“...alarming amount of people have been reported missing in relation to...became active in early 2012…”

Guided by his curiosity, he takes wary, wobbly steps towards the tv. His feet still feel numb, a few miscalculated steps have him bumping against large potted plants and walls.

“Watch yourself, Gon~” Hisoka calls.

“Shut up,” he grits to himself.

Coming into view of the tv, he slows.

His eyes catch on an elfin pair of eyes turned around and facing Gon, regarding him so honestly it arrests his thoughts. He feels his feet stop moving before he's told them to do so.

White hair, youthful, blue eyes. More than blue. Rather, ‘blue’ would be an error in judgement, an affront to the wonderful, non-existent shade that is his. Cerulean and azure and cobalt and even lilac dance in his irises. Rare shades of sky that the clouds envy. He looks, looks, looks at him. Gon only mimics the act, as though he's staring into a fire and the sparks have stolen his focus.

The boy stands from the couch, and yes, now it's clear, he's very much a boy,

And he looks…terrified. He didn't have to stand, or introduce himself. But this person doesn't seem to be considering the propriety of a captor-captive relationship and abandons any pretense with his first blurted word.

“Hi.”

It should be considered, in all definitions, anticlimactic.

But just now. His voice felt so much more impactful than the speakers on the tv, the adults chatting behind them. His soft lick of a greeting is all too like the sensation of forced silence when ears ring unprovoked; when for the briefest moment in time an able person can comprehend the burdens of the deaf. All had been muted but for his ‘hi’, and Gon thinks he'll remember this surreal thread in time longer and far more than all else thus far.

He is entirely and unwillingly thrown by the boy, who so contrasts the magnificent beasts behind them. A soft “Hey,” slips his mouth. For him to say he’s not in anticipation would be a bluff.

With wide eyes he studies a still Gon, until he must realize something, because he withers visibly, opens his mouth reluctantly.

“You...”

“Killu.” Both boys turn to the adult that's appeared at Gon's back.

It's years of experience with a mother like Mito Freecss that restrain him from leaping away like a startled cat. He wishes to be several feet away, for some area between them, curse the stranger who put a stop to their intriguing interaction. But the man has a pressure in his being that's thick and heavy and Gon's own muscles are tight and unresponsive; he greatly fears debility in this situation. He reins in any external discomfort if only for the sake of keeping his intentions low-key.

“We're eating at the table,” says the man.

“—Yes.”

It sounds more like surrender than obedience. Gon makes no effort to follow the retreating man, but the boy does.

When he notices he is alone in doing so, he turns and whispers, “What's your name?”

“Huh?” Gon blinks.

He waits patiently for the answer. They stand in the cutoff hallway, away, out of sight.

After a moment, Gon remarks with a frown, “You already know it though, don't you?"

He admits with a crestfallen nod, “Yeah. I do. Sorry.”

Gon eyes him, sizes him up.

“How old are you?”

Gon, at this point, debates the wisdom versus satisfaction in making a run for it now.

Alarms in his head and tremors in his stomach shout at him not to continue this encounter, that to divulge anything more than this could potentially kill him. Why on earth would he familiarize himself? Surely these people were already aware of his identity? For what reason would a criminal so display to his captive the personal gesture of an introduction?

The intimacy of separation from his adult counterparts makes his initiative all the more disarming.

But then, he tilts his head a bit. Radiant curls sway to the side, and Gon is at a loss, for there's no word in his language that can render all the shades of beauty he is. His attention is so concentrated yet lacking all the condemning predilection of an enemy, it's an ineffable throw—and all at once Gon is struck by an unmitigated, searing thunder; its light seeps into his chest and burns at his eyes, tingles in his fingers like the biting air on a stormy night numbs unclothed flesh.

It's a dissonant, vivid tempest that forms in him, and Gon presumes to name it ‘anger’. For why would he feel anything but?

Gon hesitates to speak, murmuring, “16.” before he even approved the action.

“We're the same age,” Killua shares.

Gon nods dumbly, anxiously.

“I'm Killua.”

_Killua._

“And you're…”

“...Gon.”

“Gon...” he repeats.

Regardless of its source, at the use of his name, Gon balls his fists at his sides, becomes harsher, firmer; like a proud animal proclaiming his unwavering strength in the face of its predator. It's a performance for his heart, however, which in all its tenacity, cannot work up to fury.

And the unknowing boy, he only smiles. And it's a doleful expression, the way his brows crease, the falter in his chin.

“It's nice to meet you, Gon. I wish you weren't here.”

As quickly as he'd provoked an interaction, it was ended, with the boy walking after his leader.

It’s all very quick-paced and confusing, leaving Gon to whisper to himself and anyone else who had looked on their first meeting from the skies, “What the hell?”

Gon's nerves have bundled in his legs, force him to follow. This isn't over, he chants to himself.

Both men wait seated at a fine glass and metal table, large enough for their current party but much too small for any meals intended for less than proper company. That's who these people are. ‘Proper’. Excluding the red-haired degenerate at his right, who leers at him when he chances a look. The other one is on the left. The boy sits too, his head drooping.

Just who is he, to them? A comrade? No, he feels more like an unwilling slave.

Gon almost stops making his way there to join them. Minutes ago he was starving, assuring himself food was necessary to be mobile. But now there's two very adult, very individually frightening auras brimming with threat.

Bristling, Gon almost falters in courage. He misses his youthful audacity of past. He can't remember when this horrible, weak feeling bloomed in him, has no memories of its catalyst. In the end, he pities himself, feeds into his own rage, and takes his seat.

What's the worst they'll do? Kill him? He believes he is prepared for that.

Gather information, devise an escape, call for help—or beat his captors. That is all Gon needs to do.

The man to his left—whom Gon has not yet met eyes with, even as he dares him to in ongoing challenge—reaches a deft hand across the table, lifting lids off trays and piling them onto the cleared trolley.

Looking down at the array of foods, his stomach feels terribly hollow just by the aesthetic of its display. Freed warm smells waft past his keen nose and Gon finds himself salivating. Subtle tang and depth from vegetable soup; a large loaf of sliced bread that somehow smells more appetizing than any homemade bread Mito ever baked; various seafoods set into picturesque arrangements. Fish scales and squid flesh gleam, delicate scents from the vegetables of the salad complementing the pungent odor of the fish. It's the most welcome assault to his senses he's encountered thus far.

Wordlessly, the food is distributed. Gon is on edge. Every minute idle feels more like weakness, and as everything except for a deli sandwich is passed around, what hope his stomach had is countered by a heavily unreasonable disappointment.

Short-lived is it however, when the unassuming sandwich plops onto his place setting—Gon did not receive the courtesy of a plate—because up close it is definitely food, absolutely fine. He somewhat questions his humility in his moment of frustration and hopes his aunt is never to see him in such expectancy. He didn't even think he would be fed.

In his distraction, Hisoka has made a position in which he can best enjoy Gon, like a child with fancy he rests his head in his palm and plays with his food aimlessly, twirling his fork in ignored salad.

“Do you mind?” Presses Killua, irritation in his voice as Gon picks up the sandwich. Briefly, he believes the complaint is directed at him.

“Not at all~” replies Hisoka. “Do you?” He gives an electric grin.

“Stop,” says the other. “Hisoka, eat. Killu, you too.” For the first time since Gon could see clearly, the long-haired man looks at him. “You, eat.” And then he returns to his plate.

Ah.

It was not a matter of pride, but interest. He could care less. That's the truth. Gon can't feel the victory of eye-contact after such a blank expression; this man is a murderer. Gon can taste it. Or maybe that's the fish sauce that’s muddied the corner of his sandwich.

He takes a deep breath, and starts eating. Quickly, hungrily. He sort of forgets where he is for a few seconds at a time. There's tomato on this. And mustard. Gon could moan.

All too quickly it's gone, and it wasn't huge to start with. He picks the choicest crumbs to scrounge after while he misses the taste of meat and lettuce that lingers on his tongue. It's not enough, but he doesn't get stuck on the fact.

There. That's done. Now:

“Why am I here?”

All three look up at Gon. Or down, rather. Nobody answers. Hisoka slurps a bit of squid down as Gon shoots a look of expectancy, fury.

Chewing, he points a finger across the table, at the man with the bun, which had loosened from its ties at some point, and now rests upon his figure gracefully, menacingly. It's so straight black, letting no light pass between the gaps in its tresses; it could very well be night and Gon would not see the difference but for the contrasting bright blue that shines around his edges.

Gon straightens up as much as he can, and repeats his question.

“Why?”

The stranger blinks, then goes to take another bite of his food. “Be more specific.”

A vein pulses in Gon's temple. “Why did you kidnap me? What do you want with me?” He growls.

Rapunzel chews very slowly. “Mm… Killu, why don't you answer that?”

“Me?” He questions. They share a look, harsh, challenging, unsure. He inhales shakily. Then he looks at Gon. “Uh,”

Gon feels himself leaning forward in his anticipation.

“Um. It's...”

How will he answer?

“You're here… ”

It's taking too long. Maybe he forgot the question.

Gon interrupts the mounting tension with a soft, “Killua.”

The name rolls over in his mouth like he's said the word a thousand times prior, and it’s strange. The attention he earns is undefiled.

“What did you mean earlier?”

Killua holds a bemused expression. “Earlier,” he copies.

“Why do you wish that?” Suddenly this answer holds more imperatives than his original seek, a curious hunger stemming from a bold naïveté, a sense that has altogether dwindled since the last day he was called a child. “Why are you here if that's how you feel?”

“I—” Killua stares at a point on Gon's face for several moments.

“Tell me.”

He looks away, and sighs. “It's complicated.”

“What's complicated?”

“Everything,” Killua blurts. “you don't know the details. It's—Gon, I never...”

“What is it, then?” Gon pushes.

Killua quiets, so he continues.

“You chose this, right?”

He looks shocked. “You don't know the details.” Killua repeats.

“I don't care about the details.” That's a lie too. “Why would you do this to someone? Someone who has nothing to do with you?” He can feel himself getting out of hand, but is unable to stop his ranting.

“It's…” And oh, he looks lifeless. “I'm so confused.” He mutters. A hand strays to scratch at his arm.

“What's to be so damn confused about? Why are you unsure?” Gon can't help his voice raising.

“Stop it, Gon…”

“Whatever the hell you're going to do with me, just say it.” He looks so sad. “Just tell me.” Why is he sad?

“Say something!” Gon demands.

Killua slams the table with a shaky fist, the glass and metal of the table’s contents jumping loudly at the impact.

It's so quiet.

“You're our bait, Gon,” He explains, deceptively calm, “you're going to help us kill someone. That's all.”

Gon has his answer.

Hisoka chooses that very moment to obnoxiously slurp whatever’s in his wine glass with all the finesse of a camel.

Gon has his answer. It’s not all that shocking, nor is it as bad as it could have been. He actually feels a bit relieved beneath all the emotions.

So why is he still lingering on Killua's broken expression?

Like nostalgia in reverse, he longs to know the boy.

“Illumi, you have a stain on my shirt.” Hisoka mumbles.

The man with a name does not look away from the scene, entirely fixated on Killua with an imperceptible set in his features. In his emotion, Gon had come very close to forgetting their audience.

“You're all so intense this morning.” Hisoka hides whatever expression of amusement he has behind a cupped hand. Looks down then, fishing for his silenced phone lighting up with notifications, “Gotta take this~” and ambles off to his own room.

The three of them remain at the table in heavy silence.

 

 

* * *

 

 

Wing rubs a lazy hand over his face in contemplation. He just has to do it. Just hit ‘call’.

He groans in a childish manner before very reluctantly tapping the green icon. It's ringing.

The taxi he'd signaled for pulls up then, he jumps into the backseat and directs the driver to head towards York Shin. It's on the fourth ring now. He's not sure whether he's ready to do this now.

“Don't pick up, don't pick up…” He mumbles.

It clicks. “Wing?!”

Damn. “Hi!”

“It's been so long!! How are you?” Asks a jovial voice over the phone.

“Oh I'm, alright, I suppose. How—”

“WING!! You never call me!!”

Oh boy. “I know, I'm sorry.” He smiles politely, as if she could see him. Knowing her, she probably can. “Things have just been so busy.”

“Too busy for me? Hm.” Wing smiles fondly at her tone, if not fearfully. “So tell me what's up. What're you calling for?”

“I was hoping we could meet up today. I've just arrived in Yorbian.”

“Oh, you're heading to the city?”

“Yes. I'm on my way now. I wanted to discuss a missing person’s case I've recently taken on.” He plays at the satchel beside him as if in demonstration.

“I see… Well, we'll talk about it when you get here. Be here at 11!”

“Ah—Alright. See you in a bit, Bisky.”

“Looking forward to it! Bye now.”

“Bye.” He hangs up. As soon as the screen fades, he releases a large breath he'd been holding. He loves that woman, but goodness, does she give him anxiety. He supposes that's largely due to her strict ‘parental tactics’ over the years.

Wing rests his head back on the seat, closing his eyes a moment. It'll be an hour before York Shin. It _needs to be 11_ when he gets to the office. He hasn't eaten in 16 hours, and hasn't used a proper bathroom in five. The last sleep he got was interrupted by Mito’s phone call.

He tells the driver to stop by a coffee shop and keep the meter running. He drops coin change as he trips out of the car and over the gutter of the sidewalk, feeling disappointed because he had old rare ones he'd been holding onto.

After a concerningly brief three minutes Wing returns with an empty bladder, juggling coffee and breakfast. Holding a bag of donuts with his teeth, he puts on his seatbelt. While eating he opens the file he'd procured on the full day and night spent on ship-to-airship rides, reading and rereading his current finds and theories on Gon's possible whereabouts, given the time-lapse and clues. He was always best at brainstorming when he was staring at his notes.

He sips his coffee and ponders whether his old friend will be willing to help him. She had before, but there were circumstances that allowed for such assistance. For being the woman to guide Wing into adulthood, she would proclaim her success and pride from the rooftops. And she had every right. He owes her so much.

The city is in view. He makes another contact, this time to someone far less accommodating. Nay, a better word would be, ‘intense’, or, ‘unsociable’, or, ‘sleep-deprived and disturbed’. In his phone, Wing has him under an alias, ‘LSTOS’. He always claimed he 'didn't like his name'.

But then, world class criminals don't tend to give their names quite so easy.

**It's Wing. I'm in town, I was hoping to ask you a favor.**

He hits send. The waiting aspect of his interactions are utterly nerve-wracking. Wing stows his phone away in his coat pocket and wills his anxiety away.

For the rest of the ride, he eats, checks his phone, fidgets. His thoughts tend to return to Mito, once he starts seeing the slums of York Shin neighborhoods. Nostalgia, the good and bad kind clumps in his stomach like butterflies.

The time reads 10:37. Every minute counts.

“You can stop here.” Wing tells the driver, as they come to a full stop in traffic. It's better to just walk at this point, and he knows these maze-like streets by heart. He pays the man, gathers his things, and starts jogging down the block, steaming coffee in hand. It's already busy, but he hasn't lost his agility and makes it past hundreds of strangers without so much as brushing someone's side.

Five more blocks. He catches his reflection in a boutique window and sort of cringes at how uncool he looks, red-faced and exhausted, jogging with his bag and coffee. Here he thought he felt sort of cool skillfully running past all of these strangers. Once upon a time he would've been able to clean each of them out as he ran, and at a higher speed too.

But alas, not only is he changed, he's _old,_ 34 is around the corner and he can't be a child masquerading as an adult forever; his body's catching up with his years.

Trying his hardest to breathe in the morning air, he rounds one last corner. A familiar office building is just ahead, his feet start to slow as if they know by memory that it's the final stretch. He rushes inside, his shoes squeaking on the glossy tile, and makes it to the elevator just as the doors are closing. Downing his coffee, he wipes sweat from his forehead and airs out his dress shirt. Good thing he's really not trying to impress Bisky.

When he checks his phone, he’s relieved to see it's 10:59. _Victory_.

The elevator stops at floor 12, he squeezes through the widening gap, and as he brisks down the hallway, in his joy, he tosses his emptied cup in a potted tree by mistake. He runs back and puts it in the trash bin next to it.

Wing throws open the second door on the left. It feels like home, in a way.

“Could you let detective Krueger know that Wing is here?” He asks the pretty receptionist, mussing his messy bangs away from his eyes. He's never going to look composed.

“Of course.” She beams. She dials a digit or two on the phone, “Wing...?”

“Oh, it's just Wing.”

She nods happily. The intercom beeps, “What's up, Cookie?”

“There's a Wing-san here for you.”

“Right on time! Send him in, hun.”

She ends the call and stands to enter the doors’ passcode. Wing thanks the woman and makes his way past several employees sitting at cubicles, gathered in areas discussing cases. Bisky really has done quite well for herself, since he first met her.

“There you are!” She squeals when he welcomes himself into her office. Bisky jumps from her desk to give him a tight hug, “Oh, you always look different when I see you. I must really be getting old.”

“No, don't say that!” Wing chuckles. “If you’re old then I am too.” He hugs her back.

Bisky grins, “Well, at least I don't _look_  old.” And Wing droops his head in a comical manner, inciting another giggle.

“Stop, please.” He begs.

“Honestly, you're being silly. 34 isn't old. Not at all.” She pats his back in a comforting manner.

Wing laughs softly.

“It's really great to see you again. I'm sorry I never call.”

“Yeah, yeah. More often than every three months would be fine.” She pulls back to size him up with a wistful expression. “Gah. Seeing you after so many years…go ahead and sit down already, old man.” She huffs, returning to her own chair.

He obeys with a smile, swinging his bag over to rest on the desk. He's taller than her even when sitting.

Leaning back in her seat and nestling a mug in her hands, Bisky nods, “Okay, go ahead.”

Wing clears his throat. “Missing person’s; I took it on two nights ago, made up a file on the known details,” He hands her the document.

Bisky reads aloud, “Gon Freecss. Age: 16. Date of abduction: November 3rd…” She seems to scan the text for a silent few moments, before clicking her tongue. “Not much here. Some bloody clothes and,” she squints, “a single needle… weird. You've already taken samples and sent them to Zushi, I assume?”

“Yes, I'm waiting to hear from him. Other than those, It was a clean kidnapping. They came and left on an untraceable aircraft. No witnesses. No exact time of abduction.”

“How do you know?”

“I've already contacted airports surrounding Whale Island for any off-course ships. Nothing there either.”

Bisky sips from her mug and turns a page in the file, Wing continues. “Between that and the size of the landing marks, I can guess it was a privately-owned craft.” He’s thankful Mito had gone looking after their call. He wouldn’t have been able to find the imprint of an airship in a grassy field during a dark storm. She was all too willing to describe its relative size to him over the phone.

“Considering I'm anywhere from 12-16 hours behind the clock with the culprit, It would make sense for them to have travelled by air and landed somewhere within that time.”

“And how are you sure the kid's not dead already?” She asks, setting down the file.

Wing smirks. “You expect me to say, ‘I'm not.’” She smirks back. “But given the trouble they'd have to go through—and the clues lead to motive—I doubt their intention is to kill Gon.”

Bisky narrows her eyes.

“I know there's a gap in the web here, but that's why I'm coming to you.”

She bites at her lip. “Tell me something,” Bisky switches crossed legs, “do you know Gon personally?”

Wing blinks. “Well, yes—”

“You know how I feel about personal cases.”

“I know. But this is different.” He insists.

Bisky raises a brow. “I'm not so sure. And I'm not so sure I can be of much help here, either. This isn't even complete,” She gestures to the case file, “nothing here is definite and even if you're doing well on time, you may have wasted it coming to me. The person who kidnapped Gon might not even be in this country—”

“Please, Bisky.” He pleads. “This isn't just a case to me.”

“Exactly. You're probably better off doing this one on your own, right?”

Wing shakes his head an adamant ‘no’.

“I have a feeling this is bigger than we know right now. Please.”

She looks up at him, sighs. “I just—I don't know, I haven't helped you with these since you were in your mid-20s. It feels like regression to help you here.”

“I'm not asking for just your help here.”

A look of understanding dawns on her face.

“You want my contacts.”

He scoffs bashfully, “In a manner of words, yes, but also your input. We always worked so well together.”

She hums. “I can't blame you.” Bisky gulps down the rest of her drink. “And we did, definitely.”

“So…” He prods.

“So…”

She thinks for a minute, conflict playing on her face. Finally she mumbles, “...Eh. Why not.”

He gives an exhale, relieved.

“It's been awhile since we had a good chase, hm?” She smiles. “Maybe you're getting rusty on that island.”

“Maybe I am.”

Wing feels his phone vibrate from his pocket and his heart picks up speed like a jackhammer. He knows who it is. And even if it isn't him, it's probably Mito, which would honestly deserve the same reaction.

He represses the urge to check and they continue to chat for several minutes.

“Where are you staying while you're in the city?”

“Ah, I don't know yet,” He scratches his neck, “I was thinking I'd stay with y—”

“WRONG!” She interrupts. “I think not. I'm living with Cookie right now.”

Wing pauses. “The receptionist? Wh—Why?”

“No reason in particular.” Her eyes flit to the only empty space on her desk.

He considers her long-hidden (or so she thinks) attractions to both sexes and decides there's definitely a reason. His eyebrow quirks and he can't help but chuckle. “Then, I don't know. I'll figure it out by tonight.”

“You’d better, and let me know your address when you find out. We can do food while we go over things. ”

“Will do.” Smiles Wing. “I'll let you go now, you can keep that copy.” He stands.

“Thanks. I'll have things ready by tonight, so be ready.”

He nods. Before leaving, he turns to her, “Thank you, Bisky.”

She looks up from her previous documents. “For what?”

He makes a contemplative face, shrugging. “Just, everything.”

Bisky smiles, “You're welcome.” He doesn't miss the way her mouth wobbles as he shuts her door.

He’ll never really not be a momma’s boy, he thinks. Leaving the office and building, Wing pulls out his phone.

_Please be…_

It's Mito.

**I hope you're doing okay! Don't forget to eat! Make sure you're getting enough sleep as well!!**

His heart sort of skips.

**Of course. Thank you for the concern, Mito. You too:)**

Hitting send, the elevator doors open for him.

He doesn't doubt that the few women in his life more than attune his imbalance; he has a couple of ‘moms’, and never finds himself craving the affections of the one he lost as a child.

A horrid gust of wind hits as he exits the building, giving him urge to bundle deeper into his jacket. It's at this point, faced with wandering the bloated sidewalks of York Shin that Wing starts to feel the bags under his eyes, and remembers he needs a place to sleep. He looks up cheap hotels for vacancies.

He could go to his father’s house. But that's a last resort.

A few 2 and 3 star hotels pop up as nearby, and being that he's in the city, they're good enough for the time being. He slings his bag over his head and makes his way back into the crowds, thinking, worrying, anticipating the reply he's unsure he'll receive at all.

He's at the border of where skyscrapers meet slums when he finds the hotel on his walk. He pays for a night and immediately heads to the room, meeting eyes with shady strangers on his way upstairs, spotting a barefoot child in another end of the hallway. This isn't new. When he enters his room, he's unconcerned with the peeling wallpaper and stained ceiling, the springy, aged mattress is a cloud for all the exhaustion and abrupt stress weighing him down.

He hasn't even taken off his shoes when he starts drooling in his lulled state. It's probably way after noon by now.

His stomach is growling and there's a button on his coat that's digging into his chest, he sits up suddenly to toss the thing on the floor, kick off his shoes, unbutton his pants and burrow into the blankets. He'll eat in a few hours, right now he's desperate for some shut-eye.

Just as he is losing himself to the soft nothingness of dreamless sleep, his phone vibrates from inside his jacket.

Bolting awake and diving for the floor, he grabs his phone. But he can't his see anything, his glasses are on the pillow, he rushes to put them on. Better.

**A favor?**

It’s not from Mito. He’s definitely awake now. Wing responds:

**Yes, nothing new. I need help finding information. I also might have a few unidentified blood samples.**

Wing stares at the screen for a minute, awaiting the reply. It comes as:

**The usual price. I'll come to you.**

Wing voices his reply as he types it.

**Okay.**

 

* * *

 

 

Gon wanders the penthouse, edging as far from the table as his gut tells him is permitted, but never straying far at all. He left the table soon after Hisoka did and it felt less rebellious than the scene he'd made with Killua.

Half-interested in the brand new posh decor, he actively memorizes the layout of this _suite_ —as he's gathered—looks for openings, opportunities. But he can't resist gazing a bit too long and childishly at the alien devices and uncommon valuables scattered about this place like sticks in a forest. Gon's life has been a sheltered one from the glamours and evils of the world, and such beautiful details and fragile technologies that lay in every corner serve to pique a certain curiosity for all its glutton.

Gon is rather relieved at the fact he's been taken to a city like this. Busy. Modern, plenty of people. Better than being trapped in the middle of nowhere. He’s unaware of its name, but feels it on the tip of his tongue; as if waiting for the softest push to recall, like he's been here before but can't mark the experience.

Occasionally, knives take the form of a man’s sharp gaze and dig holes between his shoulder blades, bite at the hair of his neck. Gon glances back every so often. They're still there. Killua is just, sitting there, and Illumi stares at him. It's a dark scene. He's subtly measuring the strength of the walls by soft knocks when Hisoka comes out from his room, looking somewhat irritated.

“Illumi,” He calls, “a word, please.”

Illumi finally takes his clouded gaze away from Killua. He gets up and follows Hisoka's summons to his doorway. As he does, Illumi turns to face Gon, who is only a meter’s width away, warning, “Sit down where you are and don't move.”

Gon stands his ground a minute, hesitant to make any moves at all, but Illumi isn't, and when he lays a hand on Gon's shoulder he half-expects it to be gentle. But it forces him down so harshly his joints pop. He falls with an “oof!”, seethes with anger and discomfort at the lumbering figure above him.

And he, who wears the same terribly mediocre face as when Gon first saw him, leaves to Hisoka's room with all the grace of a matured feline, yet somehow lacking that fickle, human nature a cat is capable of, and now it’s confirmed; Gon realizes his life is very much at stake when he opposes this man.

He considers that it’s likely he won’t have as many chances to act with two malicious pairs of eyes on him at all times. Hisoka closes his door most of the way in a manner to assure their exchange is private. Gon perks.

“What is it?” Illumi asks.

In perhaps the greatest discovery he's made yet, he realizes their unawareness—his senses are so finely attuned, he can listen into their conversation easily. This is good.

“You haven't been checking your phone,” Hisoka complains, “so your butler left me a message. Apparently there's a small family emergency.”

Butler?

“Oh. No I haven’t. It’s in the room. What emergency?”

“Mmm… Your brother's run away from home, you're to bring him back.”

“Milluki?” Illumi questions, disbelief in his tone.

“Mil—No, the other one.”

“Oh, yeah. He's done that before. That's not much of an emergency.” Illumi says, bored.

“Your guy also mentioned there's been someone tracing us since our island visit~”

“What?” Now he sounds interested. “Who?”

“Call _him_  if you want more details, I'm just letting you know.” Hisoka replies dully.

There's a moment of silence, then, “What did you think of that little scene in there?” The way he whispers feels like gossip.

“Mind your own business.” Illumi avoids.

“...You know him, don't you?”

Gon swallows.

“I don't have to answer your questions.”

“Thought so.” Hisoka must be smiling. “Isn't it funny how things like this work out sometimes~”

“Hisoka.” Interrupts Illumi.

“Hm?”

“I want you to look into whoever’s tracing us. I'll call Gotoh, but get it done by tonight.”

There's shifting, rustling of clothes.

“What do I get in return?” Hisoka whispers.

Gon has inched closer to the doorway and listens intently. He doesn't notice the light presence nearing from his blind side.

“Whatever.” Says Illumi. “I don’t really care. Just do it.”

“Then,” it’s silent, but there's that same rustling noise as Hisoka slithers, “let me fuck you later♡”

Gon gasps audibly, and covers his mouth in panic, for it's possible they might have heard him.

“Fine.” Illumi agrees.

His heartbeat trebles in his ears and it's not as easy now to hear in on them.

“What are you doing?” The sudden voice sourcing from out of his periphery causes Gon to shuffle backwards into the wall.

Killua, who's appeared beside him, leans against the wall, hands in his pockets in a casual manner, as if he'd been standing there longer than Gon had been sitting. He swivels on the floor to look up at him. Unaware of his own lingering flush from the dirty words he'd caught.

“Nothing,” he blurts, instinctively low in volume. “I'm—nothing. It's nothing.” He’d like to pat himself on the back for a convincing lie but somehow he's not confident.

“Right.” Killua looks at him funny. His sadness seems to be hidden away now.

The two men step out from the room, and upon seeing them Gon feels shame for having heard something so private—regardless of his original intent to do exactly that—it tastes more like voyeurism when he knows what these men plan on doing with each other. It's equal parts icky and embarrassing.

Reminds him of a conversation he'd once overheard from Mito and a few other women. During a night of mahjong at the treehouse, he decided to peek in on them, like all children are inclined to, youthful curiosity giving him cause to eavesdrop. Shortly after, came up the topic of sex (and quite graphic was their conversation for his virginal mind), at which point he _sprinted_ from his position by the door, regretful, attempting repression of the foul images their adult language conjured.

Gon relates the experience easily.

A pair of feet come to stop right before Gon.

“Why are you on the ground?” He asks, “Did you trip?~” Hisoka yanks Gon up by his arms and he pushes at the filthy hands.

“Don't touch me,” He spits, and they both seem to realize it's the first retort he's given lined with insubordination of any sort. Gon is surprised.

Hisoka too. “As you wish♧” He holds up his hands in mock surrender. Killua has appeared at Gon's side, standing just in front of him. He can't see the face he's making but it seems as though he and Hisoka don't get along much at all. Hisoka is smiling, but sadistic malice swims in his features.

“Illumi, I'll be leaving now~” He calls.

“Bye.” Says Illumi curtly, leaving the room and heading to the loft.

Hisoka leaves the boys finally, with a flashing look directed at both, individually, briefly. “Be back soon♤” Gon has already associated his voice with a feeling of disgust, his tone echoes in his head and makes Gon's throat thick in a foul way as he leaves through the double doors of the suite. He brings nothing with him, there is no hesitation in his stride.

One of them is gone. Gon's heart beats in tandem with brave, accelerated thoughts, thoughts that convince him it's enough to escape. Illumi on his own is dangerous, he knows that, but maybe, maybe, maybe it's enough. Should he go now, while Hisoka is gone? He may not get another chance, he knows. He doesn't feel comfortable, let alone safe here, and with each passing moment he feels his world turning a little further. Should he leave now? He should try. He's always been fast. Not one person he's ever met could keep up with him, he believes his innate mastery at surviving nature puts him at an advantage. How much else have they not accounted for? Should he do this? Will he make it?

“Hey.” Killua drags Gon's sharp eyes up to meet his own. “Um,”

He’ll wait as long as he can for Hisoka to leave the building. Then he's going for it. The doors are right there. Illumi is in the loft.

“You're right, what you were saying earlier.”

That's at least a ten foot head start. He considers Killua’s proximity too.

“I'm sorry. And I mean what I said, you don't deserve to be here.”

Soon. Soon. Soon. Soon.

“Do you...remember anything?”

This question breaks Gon’s thoughts for the moment, makes him refocus on Killua. He tries to recall everything he’s just said, but confuses himself. “What?”

“Do you know who I am?” He looks pitifully hopeful.

Despite the surplus of adrenaline that’s massed from his imminent escape, Gon actually stops to think a moment. But. “I don't know what you're talking about. I don't know you.”

Illumi appears in the raised entryway of the loft. He calls for Killua.

Gon can't spare another moment. He doesn't expect to feel sorry when he shoves Killua to the ground with all his strength, leaving him to sprint out of the suite. He doesn't look back when the doors are thrown open, he doesn't slow when he turns a corner, he doesn't feel the pain from his suffering limbs anymore because the escape he's so dearly anticipated is in sight.

But oh God now he's faced with a fork. Left for the stairs, just ahead for the elevator. There's no time to choose. He runs down the stairs, jumping down several steps at a time, but his coordination is sloppy, and he falls before he reaches the first landing. But he keeps going. His knees are giving out, but he keeps going. He can't breathe, but he keeps going. His head is swimming and there are quicker, louder steps catching up with him, but he keeps going.

There's only a few more landings. He doesn't make it past the third.

A pair of arms pulls him back and tosses him onto the ground before he can jump for his life. He coughs from the impact, regains his breath, and as he's panting, defeat creeping into his limbs, he _still_ keeps going—crawling towards the stairs, but he's turned onto his back, held down by a rough grip on his shoulders, and he flinches, fully aware of the beating he's about to receive.

He's stunned to see it's Killua that has him pinned down.

“You idiot! Gon!” He yells. He's trembling, not with rage but emotion.

“You…” His eyes are wide open, alight with terror and sorrow. He bites his lip so hard, recent wounds on the red of it open, and blood forms in the corners of his grimace. Gon is in utter shock.

“Fuck!!” His shout echoes against the concrete of the stairwell. Killua pants harshly, only staring at Gon. He calms, his breathing slows a bit, and he crumples. Gon's shirt feels vaguely wet.

“I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. It's all my fault.” Killua whispers to his shirt.

His hand comes to rest on Killua's back. There isn't much thought given to the act whatsoever. It feels right. Gon's eyes glaze with a depressive dread; he wasn't fast enough, or he was too impulsive. He discounted Killua, and made a grave mistake by doing so.

Tears of his own form at the corners of his own eyes, trail down the sides of his face, along the shells of his hot ears.

“I'm so sorry.”

Gon lost.

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> im done with the next chapter, and because its been nearly a month with no update, i will post in the next few days. I cant keep up with weekly updates, so i may change it to every other week. I like long chapters


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was one of the hardest to write,, it's also the longest thus far. I'm sorry in advance. Beware of non-con, explicit sexual content, etc. this chapter.

 

 

**_Part II : Prurience, Delirium_ **

_To allow myself the callow vision of domesticity and peace, a lachrymose reverie muddling my thoughts with your cherub image, and dare to dream of a realm far from this one — Of a benevolent reality where we are together, always; I refute the indulgence._

_And yet, to deny myself this mania is to repress my very essence. I need only let it burst in glorious passion._

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

He feels so much heavier now, compared to when he was conscious. Killua had to do it, though. Gon would've fought him to the very end.

He takes his time carrying a passed out Gon back to the penthouse; he knows what's going to happen once he gets back. He even suspects it was Illumi's plan.

The small, uninterested way he’d commanded, “ _Go get him_.” As if it was always going to happen, and he allowed it to.

Stupid, brave Gon. There are worse things to fear than death. Killua vows to absorb as much of the burden as his mortal body can bear, and then some. It was never a question of _if_ ; Killua _will_ save Gon. His desperate attempt to leave, his sad crawling as a last resort in the face of defeat at last made everything clear—Killua will help him to escape, because Gon _doesn't_ deserve this, he's going to pave a way out. Even if he doesn't make it out alongside him.

_But when?_

He wipes his face with the sleeve of his shoulder, staining his shirt red for the second time that day. Killua steels himself, the doors are just ahead. His feet have accepted their fate and fail to slow pace, steadily approaching.

_Not today. If I leave now Illumi will find us._

The door is abruptly opened for him, and he enters, feeling as though he's walking into a prison shaped like the arms of his brother. But then, they were always one and the same.

“Drop him.” Illumi orders, closing the door.

They're not more than a few feet away from the entryway. Killua complies, laying Gon on the floor. He stands to face his brother, who’s staring. Illumi swings his arm forward and slaps Killua so hard he stumbles.

“I said ‘ _drop him’,_ Killu. You should listen better.”

He pulls Killua away from Gon by the collar of his shirt. Then he kneels down beside the boy, and gently rouses him. Gon comes to after a few shakes.

He needs only a moment for the room to come into focus. He sneers, making to sit up, but Illumi plants a hand on his chest, appearing to only hold him there—but it must be weighing down on him fiercely, because Gon cries out.

“Killu.” He faces Illumi. “I want you to kick him.”

The world is silent, but for Gon's struggle against indomitable strength. The soft blue of the day invites itself into this hellish place, stains Killua's vision, reflects in Illumi’s endlessly black hair. Killua believes it to be an error on nature's part; it's a much too angelic swath for his brilliant malice. And for all the evil Killua believed he could bear, all the days and nights he would submit to fear—

“No.”

For all that he hates, all that he dreads, all that he fails to desire with each and every ounce of passion his body cradles—Gon, he does not. For all that he is and aspires to be, Gon is the key to that life, his love is a threshold and a desire in full bloom.

If desire gives birth to foul sin as his brother has enforced, then so be it; Killua is a demon for all that his heart wants after. How could he think to hurt the light that saved him?

“Say that again.” Illumi’s tone is cutting, but his expression has remained indifferent. Perhaps he truly does expect an answer—a clarification. Despite the fact that he's shaking, Killua repeats his denial.

“No.”

It comes out weaker this time, unfortunately.

Illumi rises, grabs Killua by his arms and kicks him square in the stomach, sending him across the loft and crashing into a small marble sidetable. The residing lamp and its bulb are crushed. He landed wrong, he knows where the massive bruise will be on his back and thigh come tomorrow. It's only the beginning, Killua fears.

With a crunched frown, he comes to stand again, expecting Illumi’s next hit. He hears it before he feels it—the sound of knuckles meeting flesh, bones cracking. It's a disgusting squelch.

At this point, it occurs to him, in his haze of a vision, that he is not the one receiving them.

Illumi kneels beside Gon, just as before. But between moist, hacking coughs and gasps for breath, Illumi punches him, repeatedly. When he brings an elbow crashing down to meet his ribs, Gon screams.

“No!” Killua shouts, leaping forward, onto Illumi’s back. He yanks at his shoulders, pulls him away with all his strength—but it's just not enough.

“Stop! Stop it!!” Killua is sobbing. “Please, Illumi!”

He slows. His silhouette casts a shadow on them, hair frames his face in an ungodly way. Illumi’s eyes are wicked, empty.

“Hm?” His fucking voice. This is trivial to him.

Killua is too unsteady to do anything but plead. He cries, begs Illumi to leave Gon.

“Take it out on me!”

Illumi brings a finger to his mouth in mock thought, “Why would I do that, Killu?”

He waits for an answer.

Killua thinks, in his unfastened, blurry, miserable state of mind, that he can never regret what he is about to do. He accredits it to greedy desperation. Leaning into his brother, stray tresses and his own shaky breaths doing something to tickle his skin, he whispers into his brother’s ear.

He feels cold, worthless as he says it.

“Please, nii-san.” Yes, embellish, “Stop. I'll...I'll do what you want.” Whine, beg, moan. “Let's go to our room.” Killua’s speech is colored with desire despite him knowing he’s just thrown himself into the abyss.

Illumi backs away from him to look him in the eye. “Say that again.”

“We'll do whatever you want. I’m all yours, Illu-nii.” Perhaps he looks pitiful, like a whore on his knees, begging for mercy, but he's fully aware of how little it matters in the eyes of his brother in terms of lust.

Illumi looks as though he's giving great consideration to the offer. At last he stands, and the light reveals Gon's blood spattered on his face. “Okay.” He says. Killua blanches at how happy he sounds.

“But I still want you to hurt him.”

A violent shiver takes him. Killua’s nails twitch and scratch against the air, miming what would be self-harm.

He looks down at Gon. And Gon looks up at him, with his one good eye. Fear lingers. Killua makes silent supplication to whatever deity hiding in the stars might support his cause, to save Gon. Killua wishes _he_ could be the broken one, drooling blood onto stone tile. He hopes his wish is conveyed with his eyes, because he is unable to do so with words.

With monstrous, turpid pressure at his side and the guilt of a murderer weighing in his heart, Killua kicks Gon in a manner which could never be called harmful. The toe of his shoe bumps at his leg, softly, benign.

“That won't do.”

Killua is crying. He knows it's all quite futile at this point. He gives Gon a real kick, aiming somewhere away from his ribs but not holding back, because Illumi would know it. Gon coughs blood at the impact, his pathetic grunt pulls a sob from Killua.

“Harder.”

So Killua kicks him again. Much harder. Rolls Gon onto his back by its force. His ears ring with Gon's choked whimpers.

Illumi nods beside him, as if in approval.

Killua doesn't know whether to feel relieved.

Illumi walks around Gon, “Let's get you back to your room.” He drags him by his bare feet to the bed Gon had woken up in, and lifts him up onto the mattress. It's not gentle, and Gon curses loudly, his broken ribs mashing into the covers. His blessed, bruised face is coiled up in anguish, crying dry, seething, spitting blood.

Killua and Gon have one last moment of distraught eye-contact before his brother shuts and locks the door. Killua wants to die.

Illumi brushes his hands off, and grabs Killua’s limp hand, leading him to the room he is so ecstatic to call ‘theirs’. The door is closed. They're alone.

But now, despite Killua's expectations, Illumi sits on the perch of the bed, as though in waiting; implying Killua must make the first move. He rather considers this a torture to surpass all previous molestations, because now he must act with his own hands, give the creature that forces his depravity upon him pleasure of his own will.

Killua aches for the gentle voice that would tell him that he doesn't have to touch him now, that he has the choice. He wants his brother, but his brother is the lustful, sociopathic man in front of him.

He decides to start, so that this might end as soon as possible.

He approaches Illumi face on. He spreads his knees, invites Killua to the gap in his middle, traps him close with his thighs.

Killua’s looking for the shelter in his mind he can retreat to, but it's disappeared.

His hands tremble at Illumi’s clothed chest as he begins undoing the buttons. He pushes the shirt over his shoulders, slowly, like he's seen girls do in movies, gulps as his hands come into contact with pale, warm skin. Killua expected the rest of him to be as frigid as his hands—that would've made things easier, less real.

He continues. With a deep breath, he undoes the belt on his pants and throws it to the side, pulls the garments down, until his brother’s toned legs are exposed but for socks and briefs.

He takes the socks off first. Killua wishes that his feet are putrid, but they're delicate and well-groomed.

Seeing that Illumi is already hard under the briefs, Killua knows this is all he can do, lest his hands give out on him. They themselves were already against this, they fall at his side as dead weight.

“What's wrong?”

Does he ask, because he cares for him? Killua can’t tell right now. He has the boiling urge to spill out, divulge everything to his brother. His thoughts swarm with all the sorts of licentious deeds he'll have to endure because of Illumi's indiscernible feelings.

Killua answers, “Nothing.”

His chin is pulled forward to face Illumi directly. “Don’t lie to me. Tell me what you’re thinking. You should feel free to be honest with me.”

Though that's what he says, he knows that his brother will deny the answers to his questions and force his own truths upon Killua if they fail to suit his needs. But Killua really wants his brother. He decides on a whim of desperation to tell Illumi, tries to remember if he ever had in the first place. Maybe Illumi only needs to hear these words, and he'll change; Killua should just say it.

Killua admits softly, hopefully, “I can't do this, Illumi.”

“What?” Illumi questions, tilting his head in the smallest.

_Everything._

“...Touch you. I can't do _this_ with you.” Killua finds the following silence deeply uncomfortable.

Finally Illumi asks, “Why?”

Why indeed. Killua would like to say it's purely because of his distaste for sex, and especially Illumi included, but that would be incorrect. Killua feels pleasant desire, for Gon. Innocent Gon.

Is he an exception? Or a normality? Either way Killua feels corrupt to know his attraction and acknowledge it. Moreso after hurting Gon only minutes earlier. His guilt is bottomless.

“Gon… ” Illumi says.

Killua flinches. Had he mumbled his name aloud while in thought? Had 'Gon’ been so evidently portrayed in Killua's softened features that Illumi would guess so accurately?

“I thought you didn't care about him anymore,” He reminds.

There's no energy to lie, let alone answer, so Killua remains silent. That's answer enough.

“I remember you saying you were no longer friends. That's why I allowed him to live. Is he the reason why you can't do this?”

Silence.

Illumi looks almost confused facing the husk that Killua has become. His unwelcome touch burns onto his cheek, he murmurs, “Killu.”

And still, he remains quiet.

Illumi goes a bit blank. “Alright.”

Killua recognizes some small lilt in his tone, like he's reached a decision, and isn't able to react in time when Illumi twists to toss him onto the massive bed, beneath him. They're face-to-face.

“You should be well aware of it Killu, that a ‘friend’ like Gon is useless. Aniki will help you forget.”

Killua stutters, “Wait—” And Illumi rips Killua’s shirt open as though it's simply paper, grips him by the waist and leans down to kiss marks all over his chest.

“Illumi, wait!” Killua tries pushing, but it doesn't help. He licks trails along his ribs, up his middle. Killua’s back arches despite him as Illumi sucks hard at his nipple.

“Perfect...” Illumi whispers, kissing his defined collarbone, his neck, his jaw. He sucks at Killua's bottom lip even as he retracts. “...you're perfect.”

Killua uses Illumi’s hair as a means of defense, pulling his head back. Aside from a small ‘ah’ of surprise, Illumi is undeterred.

“What?” He asks, as if in innocence.

“Stop this…” Killua pants.

Illumi sits up, straddling his brother. His bottom rests at Killua’s groin.

“Get off of me.”

It seems like he might relent. He's so quiet.

“Killu,” Illumi pauses, “do you love me?”

It's rather clear now. That Killua's visceral yearning for comfort should never have turned him to the arms of his abuser.

_When did it change?_

Deep, foul sadness forms between shards of deformed love and unhappy memories. Perhaps there were no happy memories before Gon. Through the prolonged silence Killua grants his brother, he gives the truest, most honest admission he never allowed to let himself utter:

“I don't.”

Illumi stares into Killua’s uncomfortable face, through his eyes. It's possible, when his brows crease in scrutiny, that he has found the truth he so refutes sitting in Killua's dilated pupils—hatred, fear, a contradictory solace in his profile, for that is the sum of his worth. Nothing more.

Like hopeless prey that's been cornered by its predator, Killua knows there is no use for restraint any longer. There's no ‘long-term’, no future. It's a lovely diamond knife Illumi turns inside himself. The craving for a truth that doesn't exist is a futile, brutal thing to wish for. He wonders when Illumi will respond, and how.

Then a harsh slap cracks against his cheek. He’s blinking at the pillow to his right.

“Stop lying.”

Killua can't comprehend what's just happened, but his lip is bleeding.

“You're upset,” Illumi's voice is even as he pulls two needles from thin air, “this job is stressing you out.”

Killua's eyes widen, he turns, attempts to escape from beneath Illumi, but it's too late—his hands are pinned to the mattress above his head with two quick stabs. He doesn't even feel the needles until he sees them. The pain isn't what's overwhelming.

“Why…” He seethes.

“It's okay, I didn't nick anything important.” Illumi assures. He pats the spherical end of the needle protruding from Killua’s right hand, “You'll be fine in a week.” His taps send ripples of pain throughout the nerves in his hand. Illumi’s right, he didn't cut through any tendons or veins of importance, yet the needle’s length is fully buried in the thick of the mattress. Killua could be trapped here for hours, if it suits Illumi.

“You don't know what you need right now. That's all.”

Killua tries to kick at him, but on his stomach, his legs fail to reach and he only spasms beneath the weight of his grown brother.

“You're not in the right state of mind,” Illumi breathes.

“Get off!” Killua growls.

“Shh.” Illumi lowers himself onto Killua, his erection settling just at the cleft of Killua’s bottom, heated even through their layers of clothing. Killua stiffens. “It's just me. Aniki is here for you.”

Warm breath descends onto the nape of his neck and Killua butts his head back so hard and suddenly, he knows Illumi's nose is broken. For less than a proper second he feels false victory, because in the very next, his face is being shoved into the bedsheets. He can't breathe.

“That wasn't nice.” There's the distinct sound of him realigning his nose, sniffling.

The rest of his clothes are torn off, including his underwear, which receives the worst of Illumi's wrath. As the cold air of the bedroom hits his naked skin, Killua seizes with fear, his toes clench, his gut twists with a new dread. He's never been touched _there_ before.

Does Illumi really intend to…

“Relax,” Illumi lets go of Killua’s scalp, “just relax.” He coughs when he's able to breathe again. Illumi makes to lower himself so that his face is aligned with Killua’s rear. “Trust me.” His hands come to rest on either naked side of it.

“Illumi—!”

“This will feel good, trust me.” And Killua gasps sharply at the shock of Illumi's tongue at his entrance.

His tongue spells corruption. Dips low to lap at Killua's balls, back up again to repeat the cycle. Slowly. Killua releases a high-pitched keen, it's such a weird twinge in his groin, his back, gross and unfamiliar and deeply uncomfortable.

“Stop it!” Killua demands. “Ah—!”

Illumi’s tongue pushes inside of Killua now, so fleshy and wet, he tenses his muscles in the hopes Illumi will retract on his own. Instead he burrows deeper, continues to slather him with his tongue. Killua curses aloud. Illumi grips and massages the bare flesh of Killua’s bottom, gives a mute, indefinite groan as he plays.

Killua restrains his body's reactions. It doesn't feel particularly good at all. It feels fucking disgusting, and a bit painful. But that's how it _should_ feel, right now. How it needs to feel.

With wet smacks Illumi kisses Killua's ass, both sides of it, his entrance, kisses the dimples in his lean back and kneads him all the while. Killua refuses to watch him do such horrid things to his body, else he feel it all the more—so he grits his teeth, stares at his bleeding hands and counts the seconds.

Then Illumi sits up and prods a finger at the rings of muscle. Killua rasps, “No, no, wait…”

Maybe he does intend to be inside him today. A pained moan escapes him as the finger pushes fully inside, followed by a second. It's _too much_ . They stretch and scissor experimentally, go in, out, in, out, over and again at snail’s pace. Killua is panting, writhing. It _hurts_. For all his pain tolerance he feels as though he's being torn apart.

“Tight...” Illumi breathes.

“Stop already! Please!” Killua hisses.

Illumi ignores his pleads, continues moving, acclimating Killua to his invasive fingers.

“...Mm. That should do it.”

“No, Illumi—” Killua doesn't finish his thought.

It's fast, forceful, abrupt; Killua only barely turns as Illumi shifts from slow movements and begins thrusting to the knuckle. It’s viciously uncomfortable. Impossibly tight, painful. Killua shrieks, makes to crawl away, but Illumi holds him steady.

He seethes through the feeling. It goes on and on, heated seconds edging on hours. His cheeks and ears are hot from his racing heart, his shame.

Then Illumi brushes hot solid across a bundle of nerves somewhere inside and lightning strikes in Killua's spine, tears a raw cry from his throat.

Illumi moans softly from behind. He repeats the act, fingers driving inside with aim, they glisten with a bit of blood and his own saliva. Illumi rubs particularly hard at his prostate in one movement and Killua’s back arches off the bed, his hips jut back against Illumi’s hand of their own volition and he gives a loud sob. His fingers grip at the sheets, ignorant of their impaled state.

“How does it feel?” Illumi asks, desire in his tone.

Killua is loathe to admit even to himself that it's amazing. He’s steadily moaning now. With strain, he makes out, “Stop.”

He hates every moment. This terrible, new pleasure feels evil. Gon is suffering right now, all alone, Killua hasn't forgotten.

Illumi changes his angle, curls his fingers to jab at Killua’s prostate, and he nearly screams.

“I asked how it feels.”

Killua's face scrunches into a grimace. “It’s—” and his voice is occupied. Illumi's free hand comes to cup around his throat. He grips.

Killua's already lost. Maybe if he's fortunate, he'll pass out. He knows his own helplessness like never before.

“It's good...” He finally grits, breathless. He's not enjoying this. He’s not enjoying this. Killua prays Illumi will hurry and end this if he plays along. “It's good.” He repeats, and Illumi takes his hand away.

“ _Louder._ ” And Illumi spanks him.

“Hah—It’s good…” Killua heaves. Air fills his lungs again.

“Again.” He slaps him again.

“ _Fuck_ —!” Killua mewls. His hips buck, his cock grazes the sheets. It twitches, drips. Killua is unbearably hard. “Shit, Illumi.”

“Watch your mouth.” Another slap. “Say it.”

Tears pearl in Killua's eyes. “It feels good.”

“Say it again.” Illumi brings his hand down on Killua once more— _smack_ —and Killua swears it will leave a bruise in the shape of his hand.

“It feels good,” Killua pants.

Illumi is vaguely breathless himself. “Killu.” He spanks him again, squeezes roughly at his ass as he fingers him, and it pumps precum from Killua's throbbing dick.

“Ah!”

Illumi leans down, bites the flesh of Killua’s bottom, keening silently as he fingers his brother. One more beautiful moan does it and he spits, adds a third. He speeds up, plunges in, out, over and again in rapid succession—deep, hard, the drive of his hand moving Killua rough against the bed, his ass rocking at the force of Illumi's movements. He can't take this.

“Fuck. Illumi. Stop. Fuck. _I can't,_ ” Killua whines between bumpy gasps. He can't make words come out properly. He can't even breathe. “ _Ngh_ …” His moan is light, airy.

It’s close to over. Almost. Almost.

“You love me, Killua”

Warm tears escape him.

Killua chokes on air, he's so close. It's hellishly pleasurable what's happening to him. It takes away all of his most basic senses and functions, melts him into an incoherent, tingling mess. And he hates it.

“You won't hurt anymore after he's gone, it'll be just you and me again.” Illumi licks his back, and it burns. “I'm all you need.”

_But I don't want you._

At last a violent shudder rips across Killua, he clenches around Illumi's fingers so tightly they’re slowed, and Killua comes.

It shoots onto the sheets beneath him, smears on his skin warm and wet. Killua is lost to the tears and stardust in his vision. He can't hear it himself, but he can feel the hoarse cries scraping from his throat. Killua humps the air as he rides out his orgasm, and even after, his hips roll in search of friction while simultaneously seeking to slither away from all stimulation.

He groans as Illumi removes his fingers. His insides throb and there's the faintest empty sensation clouding his relief.

Killua slips forward, collapses onto the bed—apparently his hips had risen, his knees had folded beneath him in his rapture. How awful. Illumi will never unsee the sight Killua’s given; red and sweaty and screaming in pleasure with his face in the sheets and ass in the air.

He catches his breath, catches his mind and all its swarming, awful thoughts, and he realizes that perhaps this was the first time he ever enjoyed an orgasm. The first time he'd been inching toward it as though by his own desire. If not for all his frenzied speech, Killua might have forgotten it was Illumi touching him, oh how he’d been lost to awful pain and overwhelming pleasure.

It's as though he's just lost another virginity to the horned beast of his nightmares. Killua sits on the precipice of corruption—or, ‘sat’, more like, as now he's tasted it for himself, has welcomed it inside his body.

His traitorous, wanton body. How cruel for it to play his mind like his brother plays him. He knew where to strike the right chords, build to crescendos that would unravel to his blazing rhapsody; Illumi always knows him so well.

His touch has softened now. He cradles Killua’s hips in his hands, whispers endearments between the sloppy kisses left at his back. Perhaps, it is real; Illumi truly loves him. Is there any more solace to be had in the prospect?

Gon doesn't remember him. He probably never will. Gon doesn't love him. He probably never will. ‘ _Abandon all hope!_ ’ etcetera, etcetera, awful etcetera! And Killua laughs softly in his sky-barred daze, Gon’s sweet, smiling face staining his conscious, unstable mind with black ink and the smell of green earth.

“ _...mine_.” is a word Killua makes out from Illumi’s whisperings, interrupting his terrible, wonderful, displaced dream. Illumi nuzzles his bottom one last time before crawling up his body, hair tickling at his naked skin.

Now Killua is confused again. For a brief string of moments he was able to defy Illumi, now he's sure it had all been just an illusion; that his brother was an enemy, incapable of change, an abusive master versus loving brother.

_No. That's real._

He can't remember what the color seven is, so Killua knows he's not in the right state of mind to ponder.

Killua is too confused for these thoughts. Too vacant for guilt, or depression. He's too sleepy to try and understand the world right now, but later, when he's alone, he'll cry and cry and mourn the day, curse himself to the ground then drown in his own piteous hope. Because Killua is too empty to feel right now.

But Illumi is hungry, and awake.

In a mere second Killua’s hands are freed, Illumi flings the bloodied needles away to clink against the tile. Killua groans as feeling returns to his isolated fingers and sore joints. He's rolled onto his side so that he can look his brother in the eyes, but Killua prefers the sheets. His tears feel nice on the damp silk, it sticks to his skin something gentle.

Leaning in for a kiss, Illumi presses flushed, swollen lips to Killua's still ones. Nearly dry blood from his fracture smears at Killua's lip.

Illumi’s passion increases on its own, as does his fervor, he slips his filthy tongue inside, plays at Killua's own limp one, and sucks at his bittersweet lips. He rolls him all the way onto his back, and shit, is Illumi horny, Killua can make out his lust as clear as black. He can't gather more than apathy at the moment. He's broken.

“My turn.” Illumi breathes. His voice is still his, but a passionate quality in his tone makes it unrecognizable. There's faint color in his cheeks.

Killua prays he doesn't want to fuck him. His swirling mind fears. There's no fight left in Killua.

Illumi gets off of him, initially surprising, and lays against the cushiony headboard, settles in the mountain of pillows. His underwear is still on.

“Come here,” He beckons.

Killua could leave. He could walk out the door and leave and maybe Illumi wouldn't go after him.

But after, what then?

He's nearing the unspoken time limit for when he should respond to his brother’s commands.

Killua gulps. He answers his brother's summons, crawls over to Illumi while hiding his nudity best he can with his hands, and stops just beside him. His eyes are somewhere else; on the headboard, the ceiling, gazing out the panes into the city.

Illumi stares at him. Reaching a hand out to take Killua's, he guides him forward, but stops suddenly.

“What's this?” He's referring to his arm.

Killua's heart picks up. His scabs haven't nearly healed.

“I hurt myself,” He admits, but doesn't expand upon.

“On purpose?”

“...Yes.”

Illumi blinks. “Why?”

And Killua tells the truth. Little good would it do to lie and be caught lying. “I just need to, sometimes.” Illumi stares. “I don't want to talk about it now.”

“...Later, then.” Illumi releases his arm slightly.

The lack of support causes Killua to lose his balance on his knees and topple over with a grunt, so that he's directly above Illumi's tented arousal.

He has questions forming on his tongue, but they're dispelled when Illumi pushes his briefs down his legs and his weeping erection springs into view. He says not a word.

It's frightening to be this close to such a private part of his brother. A part of him Killua had never seen, or wanted to see. Killua can smell his sex, feel its heat coming off in waves. It looks so normal, perhaps he'd been expecting an actual snake.

“I—I don't know…” Killua stammers, looking at Illumi. He doesn't know who or what he’s more uncomfortable facing.

“Touch me.”

With a turn of his eyes, Killua begs his brother. For what remains unspoken; it's clear already. Illumi doesn't respond. He only tightens his grip on Killua's limp, bloody hand, squeezes until Killua’s bones suffer.

He has no choice. None at all. He did invite himself into Illumi's bed after all, he should have known there would be no turning back. But what a small price to pay to spare Gon, at least a bit.

Killua’s first inclination is to stroke Illumi—but his hands are too bloodied and sore for that. He expects his brother is aware of this.

So he has to use his mouth.

Killua leans down, his breaths coming quick; his heart is pounding as he touches his lips to Illumi’s dick. So malleable, soft, moist. So human.

He sits there, frozen in his nude, awkward position, breathing on Illumi’s groin because he can't bring himself to go any further. He thought he'd reached the end of his tolerance back when his brother's pants were still on.

He can't do this. He can't do this.

“Nii-san, please.” Killua hears his defeat in the cracks of his broken voice. He knows it's useless, but he still pleads. “I don't want to do this.”

Illumi pets him, tilts his head as he watches Killua. “You don't have a choice,” He says gently.

And Killua knows he’s right. He submits.

It's warm in his mouth. He lets his tongue slide along the head, inch down his shaft as he tries not to taste it. He's unsteady. Killua gags a bit as it nears the back of his mouth. When he tries to pull back up after a meager three inches, Illumi’s hand forces Killua further down. He chokes, salivates over Illumi’s cock as his nose is pushed flush to his pelvis. It hits somewhere deep in the back of his throat and Killua feels like he might throw up.

The softest sound leaves his brother and Killua is crying again, striving to breathe through his nose. He smells the faint scent of Illumi’s sweat.

When Illumi loosens his hold, Killua shoots back up, coughing, gasping. A bit of spit dribbles down his chin, and his brother gently rubs it away, wipes the tears from Killua’s cheeks.

“Keep going.” His voice is too stale for his gestures.

The second time Killua wraps his lips around his brother's erection, his heart drops to his stomach. He bobs his head, slowly, stiffly, tries to ignore the precome leaking inside his mouth.

“I want more than my fingers inside you.”

Ice and fear takes Killua. Halts his mouth.

“Don't worry, I still have to prepare you a bit more. I'll make sure it won't hurt. For now you can just do this.”

“Fuck you.” Killua grits. “You're sick.”

Illumi’s head angles curiously. “Do you think?”

“Yes.”

“In what way?”

Killua answers coldly. “In every way. Especially now.”

“Hm.” Illumi goes silent. After a few empty moments he looks pointedly at Killua. “Did I tell you to stop?”

Killua responds with irritation. His adrenaline kicks; he sucks Illumi tightly, out of instinct, moves his head up and down at a finer pace than before. It shuts Illumi up, effectively. His steady breaths have become slightly uneven.

After a minute of fervent work on Illumi’s cock, he can't feel anymore; his lips are numb, he can't taste. That's good, Killua thinks.

There's a hand in his hair, gently clenching each time Killua nears the base with his tongue. This can be over faster if he tries harder. He's never been one for porn, but an image he'd caught accidentally peeking into his other brother's room when he was younger comes to mind, gives him cause to try something.

Killua hollows his mouth up Illumi’s shaft, slides his tongue down the underside of it, sucks at the soft flesh at his balls.

It's even more revolting in his mouth, and foreign, but Illumi's nails are oh-so gently clawing in Killua's hair and he feels his hips stirring beneath him—it's quite possible Illumi is enjoying this far more than he lets on. Let this end.

He sucks hard and Illumi lets out a soft ‘ah’ from where he's slid down into the pillows. Killua notices now how subtle his rapture is; in the way his thighs and middle tense and clench with each movement of Killua's tongue, how his mouth is only barely open and his breaths are coming quickly, mutely.

Killua takes advantage of this moment. Planting a hand on Illumi’s thigh, he comes up to look at his wet, flushed erection. He can tell by the way it twitches he's nearly finished. No warning. Killua spits on his cock, sucks harshly at the head before forcing the length as far down his throat as he can manage. Illumi lets out a real, true moan.

“You're doing so well Killu.”

Killua holds himself there, his throat spasms from lack of air and he chokes, the pressure sending a jolt through his brother and he thrusts up into Killua's mouth.

“I hate you.” Killua gasps, dick in his mouth. It wasn't clear or even heard but that's okay. He just needed to say it.

Killua speeds up, returns to sucking, swallowing around Illumi's cock. Uncaring of the saliva on his face or his own discomfort, having to lean so far forward, crane his neck. He feels open, ashamed, because his bottom is elevated and his knees are spread. It stings when the cold air hits his many, small injuries.

Illumi twitches fiercely in his mouth, swells, and just as Killua wants to come back up for breath Illumi shoves his head down again. Killua's eyes widen.

“Swallow.”

His throat tightens despite his odious contempt. Illumi thrusts into his mouth at an even pace, and he can feel the cum beading out. Muted noises pour from Illumi and it gives Killua shivers.

Illumi’s release floods down his throat thick, fills his mouth and drips from the corners of his full frown. He gags heavily. There's no air. His nose isn't reliable here because it's being pushed into Illumi's groin.

“I said swallow, Killua.” His voice is ever-so-barely husky. But his command is stern.

Killua shuts his eyes, forces down bile and swallows. All of it. Hot. Repulsive in flavor.

Illumi lets go, white hairs are caught in his sweaty grasp as he does. Killua scrambles back, catches his breath again. His face is red and there's leftover cum on his chin that drips onto his chest.

Illumi watches him, leans forward and pulls his limp brother into his lap to straddle him. Flesh mashes against slick flesh and Killua can taste his own metallic apprehension.

“You have cum on you.” Illumi announces offhandedly. “But it's okay, I forgive you.”

He pulls Killua into him, close, so that their noses are nearly touching. “You did so well.” Illumi licks Killua's cheek of warm semen, “I'm really happy, Killu.”

“What now,” Killua says.

It would be a question, but he finds he's not after an answer so much as a conclusion. His lethargy spreads into his tone, makes him sound broken.

“Nothing, for now. I'm satisfied.”

Illumi folds the blankets over, gets under the covers holding his younger brother close. And he lets him. Their sexes touch in the movement and an overwhelming grief sets in.

Illumi kisses Killua's sweaty temple, says, “I love you.” In another life he hopes he could have meant it in a purer way.

He stares at Illumi’s chest, blankly, dead.

Is Gon awake right this moment? Is he afraid?

How genuinely Killua prays in his quiet, unraveled state; that dear Gon will survive this terrible ordeal—more than survive, _escape it_ —with all the dignity and pride he exerts in every moment he lives, every breath he takes, and that he should find contentment. How selfish of Killua to have hoped he by his presence alone could cure amnesia.

Illumi pets his brother, runs his hands across Killua's bare skin. He craves a response to his profession—his fingers tingle with his anticipation. What a tell.

Killua sighs, because he has no life in him to properly speak, “Yeah.” Illumi cradles him ever closer.

Killua misses Gon. He's relieved to know his role is martyr. What a good feeling to balance out his pain right now. Let everything wither and die, if only Gon can find his way back home. Let Killua fade away along with the rest of the world. Let Gon remain in his perfection. Let this end.

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

The window was left open, so it's cold. Bisky and her accursed hot flashes.

Wing shivers in his long sleeve and coat, he'd fallen asleep at the table after finishing dinner. Files and haphazardly-taken notes lay strewn across the wood. Bisky had stopped by for food as well as to share her sources, and had even been able to ‘narrow’ a list of suspects based on the limited evidence. Zushi had called back, confirming the blood sample was not in any of the neighboring countries’ systems. It remains unidentified.

He'd also found that the needle was no ordinary tool. It was large and of a rare compound of steel, heavy and sharpened to nearly the point of a scalpel. Most definitely a unique weapon.

Because of this, and the airship, Bisky was adamant about her findings.

“ _I'm telling you, it's someone on this list._ ”

“ _All of these people are either royal, don't exist in society or operate in the underground._ ”

“ _And you were thinking it was someone ordinary who abducted your friend?_ ”

“... _Well, hoping anyway…_ ”

Wing jumps awake when his phone rings beside him. He almost tosses it into the air trying to grab it in his haste—ah, It's only a message.

**409-2648-7033**

Wing calls the received number immediately. It rings, and rings, then a dial-up noise echoes on the line. It sounds like...a fax machine.

It beeps then, and after several long, silent moments, more echoes and beeps and transfers and Wing wondering if he'd made some kind of mistake in calling the number, a deep voice says through the line, “I'm on the roof.”

“Th—the roof??” Wing rushes to the window, searching the tops of every building in sight, “Is that safe?”

“No. Move out of the way.”

He obeys, lunging sideways.

Wing half-expects it to be a grand entrance like on tv—where the mystery man flies in through the window and tumbles perfectly upright, killing four bad guys in a matter of seconds and coming out unscathed.

Instead, he enters in a much less exciting manner; one long, skinny leg before the other, ducking under the window’s wedge and then righting himself, tall, stiff, shifty, strange. His long silver hair is pulled into a messy ponytail.

“Kite, nice to see you.”

He turns to meet eyes with Wing, “Yes.”

His bloodshot, sunken eyes tell stories of countless sleepless nights. He might spend them all as he does right now; running across the city, looking for distractions. That's how he always seemed to feel about these cases. Wing rather trusts him, despite his shady behavior and legal standing.

His worldly reputation is a long list of crimes ranging from petty to economically devastating. No counts for murder.

Wing knows Kite is searching for something specific. Whether he hides it or doesn’t much care who knows, it’s always been obvious. Wing also knows he doesn't know this man at all. He could very well be the person he is on paper, widely rumored to be insane. But no one ever called a genius normal, or an eccentric healthy. From the few years he's been acquainted with Kite, he's always shown interest in his cases, provided assistance with all the money he's hoarded and immeasurable knowledge he conceals.

The city will never know all the bad he's spared it from.

Which always leads Wing back to: What is Kite looking for, and why hasn't he found it yet?

“Okay.” He says at last, finished eyeing the bare yet messy room. Wing’s stay hasn't been long but he already has his few things scattered about like wild. “Show me what you have.”

“Ah, right.” Wing shakes himself to the present, having gone off on six different mental tangents. “This is what I have right now, I'll let you look at it for yourself.” Wing hands Kite the file he'd been napping on minutes earlier.

He reads quickly. Has he even blinked since coming in?

“...Gon.” He mumbles.

Wing shifts on his feet, crosses and uncrosses his arms. It's been a long minute. He stutters, “This—this is… a very important case to me. I know Gon personally.”

Kite looks up at him. “You can't find him yourself?”

“Unfortunately, no. This is too big for me, I'm afraid. I have—” Wing grabs the scratchy, edited suspect list from the pile of papers, “this; Bisky drew it up.”

“What is it?” He takes the paper, but continues reading Gon's case file.

“A suspect list. I admit, it is early and we're severely lacking in evidence, but that's what she came up with.”

“Hm.” Kite switches hands and begins skimming the paper. “This…” His eyes widen. His mouth falls open.

Wing perks. “What is it?” Had he missed something? Has Kite come to some groundbreaking realization after a total of two educated minutes being involved with this case?

Kite sneezes. “Excuse me,” He sniffles, shaking off his sneeze. “This is...wide-ruled paper. Interesting.” Wing laughs genuinely, if not nervously. Kite actually starts reading now.

His eyes narrow. “Why am I on this list.”

Wing raises a brow. “Are you?” Kite hands him the paper to see for himself, then goes to sit at the table, crossing a leg over his knee. Yes, he is on this list. “Uh…”

“I'll bet she knew you'd contact me.”

“She probably did,” Wing chuckles. Her writing for Kite’s full name does stand out in curly cursive versus plain print. “How funny.” He sits across from Kite, sets the paper down. “Aside from that, your thoughts?”

Kite seems to be thinking. “It's far too early to be sure. But—” He grabs a stray pencil and leans over the table, starts writing on the list. He looks closely at each suspect individually—each Royal family name, criminal alias, CEO, Mafia Don, assassin group, human trafficking ring—scribbles notes and numbers next to a few of them, while scratching out the rest. He extra scratches out his own name, a smirk ghosting on his thin lips. He scans the leftover names again and again. Then he slides the paper over to Wing.

“This is where you should start.” Kite fidgets with the pencil. His long, nimble fingers roll it around in his hand with mastery, his nails are bitten down to the nubs.

“How can you be sure?” Wing asks. Despite having already seen these names as suspect, he's just as shocked if not doubly so at those who are left after Kite’s process of elimination. A few names he recognizes from years of experience, a few he fears.

Kite licks his chapped lips, “It's—” He points to the figures next to the names, “these are their base coordinates, phone numbers, ages. I wasn't expecting this, so I neglected to bring a computer. I could find each of their current locations if I had...” He mumbles towards the last few words.

“I'm sorry, I don't follow,” Wing admits.

Kite explains, “Each of these people were active in their trades or passed through Whale Island’s coordinates in the same period of time as you have in the file. Which means,” He taps at the paper, “if you were to say it was any one of these people, at this moment, Gon could be in three different countries.”

Wing’s stomach drops. "You know all that without looking?"

"I keep constant tabs on my peers and enemies."

Wing lets out a dumb, "Ah."

“However,” Kite continues, “I’m not sure who would've taken a private airship, so I'll look into that. Also, Gon’s file noted a needle. That weapon has been mentioned once before in relation to this assassin family.” Kite points to a foreign name, ‘Zoldyck’. He pauses.

“I don't know much about their operations. But with what you have, I can at least locate them.”

“Oh boy,” Wing sighs. “I knew it was unlikely, but I'd been hoping this would be somewhat simpler.”

“It could also be any one of these people, though.” Kite swirls the paper back around for him to look apart. “...Actually,” he _adds_ a name, “yeah...Yeah.”

Including the Zoldycks, there's now four names. Wing knows three of them.

“Ging Freecss. Who is that?”

Kite collapses into the back of his chair, and pulls a leg up onto it to hug as he speaks. “He’s an executive for the archeological department of the Hunter’s Association.”

“The Hunter’s Association… that mercenary and treasure hunter guild?”

Kite fiddles at his peeling cuticles. “It’s a bit more extensive than that.”

“What does he have to do with—”

“Gon's last name is Freecss, I suspect that's a relative of his. Does he have any, that you know of?”

Wing sighs. “No, just his aunt now. She told me both his parents died when he was little.”

Kite pulls his phone from his pocket, types something. “Maybe she hasn't told the whole truth.” He shows Wing his phone; images of ‘Ging Freecss’ online. A mix of paparazzi and candid photos taken in different settings; deserts, forests, by the sea.

“Does he look anything like Gon?”

“Y—yes. He does.” He's a spitting image. Wing takes the phone to look closer, adjusting his glasses. “But…”

“I happen to know Ging personally. I don't know whether he has children, but Gon appears to be his son.” Wing hands Kite his phone back, “In any case, I'd start with whoever is closest on this list.”

“The Hunter’s Association headquarters is here in York Shin,” Wing realizes aloud.

They look at each other, as though in agreement.

“Then start with Ging. I’ll come with you.”

“Really?” Wing asks.

“Why not.” Kite doesn't sound terribly excited. Perhaps he needs to run a Ging-related errand and doesn't mind hitching a ride with him.

Something occurs to Wing, “How will you do that?”

“How will I walk right through the Hunter’s Association headquarters?” Wing nods in affirmation. “Easy. I'll just do exactly that.”

“Exactly—wait, but—”

“I should be going now. I'll let you know what I discover with the Zoldycks and the others.” He stands to head over to the window.

Wing stammers, “Er,”

“Hm?”

“Forgive me for asking you, Kite, but,” he hesitates, “what should I do if it so happens the Zoldycks took Gon?”

It's not a task he can trust to the authorities. Wing is by no means incapable in a fight, but he's not so sure of himself as to say he’d take on any one of the Zoldyck family members.

“...Take him back.” Kite answers.

His face is set firm. “I'll contact you soon. Don't worry about paying me until this is all over.”

Wing feels strangely reassured by the vague statement. “Okay.” The payment thing is nothing new though. He's wondered if Kite even wants the money.

They give their brief farewells, then Kite exits through the window. Now that Wing thinks about it, it's entirely possible he had entered through the window simply to avoid the scary looking people hanging around downstairs. A testament to his social anxieties.

Wing shuts the window. He has some things to do now. He pulls up the contacts Bisky had sent him, and looks them over. He wonders if there's anyone who might be willing to help, should it come to a face-down with someone on this case. God forbid it should be the assassin family or their wicked comrades.

Ging Freecss. Who would have known… except Mito? It's rather late now, there's an eight hour time difference so he doubts she'll be awake for quite a bit longer. But he feels a scouring need to find out if she knows.

As he sits hunched over at the table, thinking, writing, researching what he can from his phone, thunder rolls. Rain patters at the glass, echoes against the aging building. Fantastic timing, Wing thinks.

He hopes Gon is alright. He prays he's being kept for some less than malevolent purpose, some reason he couldn't possibly be aware of. Maybe this all connects back to Ging.

Wing has become very unsure of himself; perhaps Mito should have gone to someone else after all…

But. No. Only he can do this.

With all that he's found thus far, Wing can't become discouraged. He'll find Gon if it kills him.

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> BIG thanks to my very good friends [ zeal](http://godspeedcomplex.tumblr.com/) and [lost](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lostbedouin/pseuds/Lostbedouin) who helped immensely with this chapter in beta-reading and development. Check out their wonderful writing for hxh!!


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Literally passed out last night in the middle of editing. I wonder if my ridiculous prose will ever become something.  
> Nsfw this chapter---

 

 

  


Once, when Wing was a child, an inebriated homeless man shared with him his truth. It's not particularly noteworthy looking back as to why he found himself conversing with a strange drunk in the first place; possibly, he'd simply been looking for a distraction from his father.

The aged man had been sitting on the ground, in a crumpled, dirty, unassuming manner. “ _Have you ever looked up at the sky while it's ringing?_ ” He blurted out.

Young Wing raised a thin brow in perplexity. _“Do you mean ‘raining’?”_

 _“Y_ — _yeah. Raining. Have ya?”_

 _“I don't think so,”_ Wing humored.

 _“Boy, is it a sight! S’hard at first to see_ — _to be brave ‘nough to look up, that is. But when you do…”_

He trailed off abruptly, and Wing considered he may have passed out. _“What?”_ He pressed.

The old man swigged something wrapped in a paper bag. Then he said, _“You see the whole world. You see the stars right through the clouds. Everything, like ya needed the rain to open your eyes.”_

Wing thought a moment. _“I’d think it'd be the opposite.”_

 _“That's what my fuckin’ wife always said. Stupid bitch never even looked up. You need to look up! See for yourself!”_ And that had been the end of a brief, yet memorable encounter in Wing’s childhood.

Regretfully (not really), that old man later found a new hovel from which to loiter in and curse at children, so Wing soon forgot about what he'd been told. He never remembered to look, not until he was fifteen. He'd just robbed a convenience store on the south end when a downpour began. He wasn't even halfway home, his shoes were soaked, his pockets heavy, glasses foggy, and in the near distance there were sirens.

And yet, for whatever reason, something compelled him to slow in his tracks and do it. Look up. He took off his glasses, and did so.

In the deep violet night, above and beyond incoming rain droplets (which were oh-so large and scary when they happened to land right in your squinty eyes, that old man was right about courage), there was endless sky. Stars shone brighter than city lights—perhaps they _were_ city lights, but details, details—the clouds took form in moving creatures, and the world felt truly massive.

It was free in the sky. He was free and his father was nowhere to be found. Wing felt as weightless as the tufts of cloud edging into his sight.

He felt at one point he might tip over and swivel all the way back upright, as though gravity favored the soles of his feet. In a mere second he'd lost himself to the sky, it's jarring mist of galaxies and mystery. The wet rain cradled him, and he dazed. Eventually the droplets in his eyes were nothing more than a vague discomfort he could blink away. It was a frighteningly close police siren that finally broke his focus.

If he hadn't tried to put his glasses on before running, or tripped on that crack in the asphalt on 11th street, or if he'd only been slightly faster, the cops wouldn't have caught him and Wing wouldn’t have had to be delivered to his father by the police at the ungodly hour of three.

_“Keep him out of trouble, this is your last warning.”_

Wing’s father had only nodded, shut the door and waited for their squad car to pull out of the driveway. Then he took off his belt.

He knew how to wear a face when he needed to, because he needed to hide his inability to be a father.

That was one of the worst nights of Wing’s life. It hurt, and it hurts to recall. It was one of the worst, because, albeit for a dramatically brief moment, it had been one of the best. To discover escape in his first meeting with the world's true beauty only to be further immersed in his despondent reality. There is no joy in fermented memories like the ones from his youth.

It might be the feeling of cold droplets on his skin, the smell of the city when fresh rain dredges up the old, rotten stink of asphalt and trash that awakens such a grisly memory in Wing. Maybe it's the fact he's looking up again. It's exactly as it was then; he can see everything. It's so clear. Glowing lights of liquor store and laundromat signs bare surreal color in the rain’s falling reflection, paints the sky reds and pinks and purple neon, makes a rainbow in its own cheap manner.

He's glad to feel that the sky has new meaning, from when he was a child.

This time, instead of sirens, he's distracted by a beeping from his pocket. His phone battery is low; he should get back to the hotel quickly. Wing hasn’t an idea what sort of spell had so urged him to wander downstairs and outside for a walk on this rainy night, but it gives him a terrible feeling. The doleful beauty of the moment fades, and foreboding lingers.

Perhaps it’s only a foul nostalgia from being so close to his childhood home. Or perhaps this feeling is stemming from something more knowing—as though this is the last time he'll ever see the crying world in all its polluted glory. As though a window is closing.  

Wing eventually circles back to the hotel. He refuses an offer for drugs outside, slips past a shady trio banging on one of the doors down the hallway. He feels a sense of home coming to fall into the nearest piece of furniture in his rental room—which he still hasn't been able to properly rest in for more than an hour straight.

Should he rest a bit more, Wing might miss Kite’s message and effectively fail at this little mission he's already hyped up in his mind. Should he stay up, he'll only think too much and burn out before he has a chance to appear composed.

With luck his phone rings and makes the decision for him. He picks up without reading the Caller ID, mostly because his glasses are still wet and foggy and he can't be bothered to expend the energy of righting them.

“Hello?”

“ _Wing, good morning! Have you found anything new about Gon?_ ”

Despite the amount of stress Mito’s question conjures (and the fact it's only barely three in the morning here), he breaks into a half-smile at her voice. “Mito. Yes, we've made some progress. I believe we have a couple of suspects, it's just a matter of time now.” Wing wills his tone to be as warm and reassuring as it can be with how exhausted he is.

“ _That's good! I'm glad to hear it._ ”

“Yes. Hang in there, we'll find Gon.”

The line is silent for a few moments. When her voice returns, it's small, and faltering. Like she might be crying. “ _I really miss him._ ”

Wing runs fingers through his wet hair, lets his heavy head rest in his hand. He listens.

“ _I want him to be alive so bad._

“ _God, I, I don't know what I'll do if he doesn't come home. What if he's dead._ ” She sobs, “ _What if he's already dead somewhere? What if he's been dead from the very beginning? I_ —”

“Mito!” Wing calls her name gently, but it's loud enough. She quiets, but for her gentle crying. “Don't think like that. Please,” he finds himself running out of ways to comfort this suffering mother, “please, don't think that way…” Her grief echoes through the line and for a second Wing can feel, however fractional, her sadness. He'd been repressing it all the while and now it's surfacing in him in the form of stress and stinging eyes.

Despite this, he's compelled to distract, “Hey, Mito, do you remember that time when we were little, my grandma caught us switching clothes?”

“ _Huh?_ ” Mito sniffles, “ _Where did that come from?_ ”

“Do you remember?”

“ _I think so, why?_ ”

“Do you know what we wore that day?” Wing wears a small watery smile as he recalls.

A shaky breath. “ _I don't._ ” She sounds calmer already. “ _I don't remember._ ”

“You were wearing that dress your mom made, I had those dorky green overalls. They were big on you, and the dress was hilariously tight on me.”

“ _Hah, yes I remember now. You were really chubby as a child._ ” Mito laughs silently, sniffling again. “ _What made you think of that?_ ”

“I'm always thinking of you in some way or another,” Wing admits. He realizes, a bit too late, that it's more telling than he would like.

The line has taken an unnerving silence, and he feels the terrible need to backtrack and rephrase. He feels as though he's made hasty transition from her sorrow to him, and he's very anxious to clarify.

“Are you getting out of the house at all?” He asks instead.

“ _No. Well yes, but no. I don't think I've left my porch for more than an hour at a time._ ”

Wing sighs gently.

“ _It's so quiet. Ever since mom died, Gon made enough noise for her and himself. He was such a loud presence,_ ” Mito shudders once more, a symptom of crying, “ _I can't stand to hear my own steps creaking in the wood. I keep making my meals too large. I hate doing the laundry for someone who isn't here._

“ _I'm so lonely I could die._ ” Mito sniffles, adding, “ _Pathetic, hm? Don't tell anyone I said that,_ ” She chuckles quietly.

“Not pathetic,” Wing states. “If anything you're too strong and the effects of your grief are only now working their way about you. Don't lose hope, Mito.”

She goes silent for a while, then she blurts, “ _Wing, where are you staying?_ ”

“Huh? Why?”

“ _I'm coming to York Shin._ ”

He sits up straight, grips the phone a bit tighter. “Ah, Mito, I'm not sure—”

“ _Listen to me, Wing. I can't take another moment on this small island. In our house. I'll just feel worse._ ” She shudders, “ _There's nothing here. I need to do this, or I'll lose my mind,_ ” takes a breath, “ _at the very least I can see for myself and feel your progress in this case. Where are you staying?_ ”

Wing doesn't know how to feel. “...I'll buy your tickets.

“And I'd rather you not stay here, I picked a hotel in the bad side of town. I'll find a place for you to stay.”

“ _Okay._ ” The two of them seem to be thinking, the line is mute.

“Are you su—”

“ _Yes. I'm packing my things and heading to the shipyard, I'll call you when I get to the airport._ ”

“Alright.” His heart is beating quickly. Is he afraid? Worried? Excited? Unknown. Mito sort of lingers on the line, prompts Wing to ask, “Are you going to be okay?”

“ _I'll be okay when I get off of Whale Island. Goodbye for now, Wing._ ”

“Ah—goodbye then.”

“Bye.”

“Talk to you soon. Mito.”

As he says her name one final time, he thinks he's rather motivated. Not to let his past have bearing on his mindset. He's wondering whether he'll find it easier or in fact more difficult to focus on this case with her here.

The call ends, and it’s cold.

 

 

* * *

  


 

 

Killua was just 13 and a half when Illumi first made known his stifling, lustful affections. Just after he'd come home, after Gon.

Killua, a pubescent child of burgeoning sexuality, who'd only been privy to innocent touches, blooming feelings and one life-changing encounter with his friend during his summer on Whale Island, came home with the notion in mind that all would be exactly as it had been before Gon. Lonely, painful, dark.

He was proven otherwise.

On a lilac evening on the sixth day of his long-blessed return from his adventures, his family (his mother, really) proposed a family gathering, so as to celebrate his return home. In the courtyard of his mansion’s property, beneath the ivory gazebo with its pillars complimented by delicate grape vines, red rose bushes surrounding the magnificently carved focal point of a large and extravagant garden. His father made few comments on his state of being, his brothers present simply ate, acknowledged his presence, and later called it a night. But for one.

Illumi spoke up over the butlers clearing their finished plates, the rest of his family taking their respective leaves.

_“Killu.”_

He looked up at his older brother across the stone table, _“What?”_ Anything to avoid going back inside, any moment in the sun was an escape. A memory to relive. But ah, the sun was setting.

_“I'm really happy you're home.”_

Killua had gotten a bittersweet feeling at his words. He wanted to be somewhere else, but knowing he was loved in such a bad time for his heart uplifted him in the smallest. He nodded, as if in agreement with his brother.

_“I was thinking you and I could play a game tonight.”_

_“What kind of game? Will it hurt?”_ He asked skeptically.

_“No, not at all. It'll be really fun.”_

Had Illumi been hiding some truly fun game from him for so many years? Killua doubted it, he may have even felt in his gut the deceit, but his craving for affection from his loss of a friend made him consider it. He agreed, and took his brother's open hand as he was led inside the mansion.

Up the stairs, into Illumi's room.

 _“What's the game?”_ He asked his brother uncaringly, looking around his sparse bedroom with blank eyes.

Illumi shut the door, turned to face Killua. _“Sit on the bed.”_

Killua received a weird twinge in his gut from the strange order, but played along. Perhaps this would veer into a new facet of his training somehow. He trusted the command. It was Illumi. He loved Illumi. He was all he had now. Why wouldn't he trust him?

The four-poster canopy was plush, Killua found himself wanting to recline just as soon as he made contact with the bed. He bounced on the mattress a bit, as though to keep focused on the impending game and banish the odd tension Illumi was producing. With the way he stared at him, the way he proceeded to the bed one slow step after another, Killua found he wanted to look somewhere else; but he didn't dare to face away.

Illumi at last sat down beside him, and oh, by the serious look of it Killua was expecting another reprimand, a scolding that would go on for an hour before Killua ran off to his room to be alone. But…

_“Killua.”_

At the use of his full name he twisted his body to face Illumi more completely. _“What?”_ He stared and stared.

_“Come closer.”_

Killua did—reluctantly. _“Is this the game still?”_

_“Yes, it’s starting. Close your eyes.”_

And Killua did. Despite some part of him screaming from the inside to leave. He put full trust in his brother.

Illumi held his hands, folded his fingers into them and leaned into Killua. Soft breath caught on his forehead, his nose, his lips. And it felt wrong. Like Killua shouldn't have been there. He opened his eyes.

Illumi’s flashed, devoid of light for all of a second. Killua should have obeyed suspicion and instinct.

Just like that, his brother's lips were crashing against Killua's, hard, warm. He, in his shock, didn’t move. Couldn't. A gentle hand placed to Killua's neck, the other gripped his smaller, tense hand, and he was pulled into an embrace as Illumi stole such a passionate kiss.

Finally Killua shoved Illumi away, wiping his mouth with his sleeve roughly. _“Why did you do that??”_

 _“Kiss you?”_ Illumi asked.

He nodded furiously in confirmation. As though the wrongness of his action should have been perfectly obvious.

 _“Because I love you.”_ Illumi stated, as though his own reason were the obvious one.

Killua hadn't been expecting such an outright answer from Illumi. Under any other circumstance, he should have been able to simply reply with an ‘I love you too,’ but more and more he was becoming aware of the terror his brother's love posed. He should have fled right then, because maybe he would have made it.

But he was frozen; his knees were shaking, his heart raced and he felt his world crumbling. Illumi pulled Killua back to the bed. Everything in slow motion.

 _“No, this is weird…”_ Killua made to leave, run from the room—but what an iron grip his brother had on him.

_“Stay here, Killu.”_

He fought, kicked, considered yelling for help—but that would have a much worse result, he thought. And his pride was too much to allow his family to know he could be taken advantage of like this, by his brother. Shameful. Pitiful.

In the end, Illumi’s tongue made its way into his mouth. He sucked at Killua's lip, touched lightly his unwilling, youthful body through his clothes. A minute of writhing and fighting earned him a tight hug, pressing into the mattress beneath his brother as his breath was taken by eager lips, and all the while Killua felt as though he would vomit at any moment. And then, he did. All over his brother's bed.

Killua doesn't really remember the pain of punishment, or how long he was made to make out with his brother that night, or any of the nights after. He doesn't much remember at what point the touches strayed to his sex, or even when he gave in, deeming his own resistance pointless. Two years passed as one blur of debauched, dark, nauseous ‘pleasure’.

But Killua does remember the way his home changed. Where it had once been dark, torturous—it had worsened, horror for depraved horror. Feelings of disgust, discomfort, silence, repression. Keep all to himself. Don't fight it. An everlasting hell made worse by his loneliness, because he no longer had even his brother to comfort him. Not really. He could fool himself, but he always knew; he’d lost another sibling.

Killua was just 13 and a half when he discovered what it felt like to want death. What it was to peel away skin and savor the sting of blood hitting the air, because it felt like release. How lucky he was for sporadic rushes of hope and memory that kept such severities of emotion dormant. With what luck had he to know how to supress his feelings for survival’s sake. And how awful that he took comfort in killing others, those initial months after snapping. He chose to participate, to go along with his family. Because it felt like release.

Images of pale hands, black hair and fear wake Killua from this dream—only it is not so much a dream as it is a nightmare: a vivid, traumatic memory stuck on replay.

His body is hot. Sweaty. He can feel the covers down at his ankles, hear the sound of harsh rain, but he's overheated. Killua blinks open his eyes at the textured ceiling above, stares blankly, his first coherent thoughts straying to Gon, who must be up by now. How can he be left alone for so long? These thoughts take chronological order of remembrance, towards Illumi.

Where is Illumi?

The heat becomes more focused, tingles in his groin. Killua’s breathing quickly, deeply, he realizes. His watery vision clears and he chances a look down his body; and Illumi is there, touching him.

In front of the window to illuminated York Shin, he sits on Killua's thighs. It would be pitch dark this night if not for the thousands of building lights in front of them. The pattering of rain echoes on the thick glass, blurs the colors and glow that dare to pour into the room in streaks. It tints the room and all its occupants a vivid shade of blue.

“Ah, good. You're awake.”

Slowly, Illumi strokes him, one hand on Killua's growing arousal and the other splayed across his stomach, soothing and curling at his tensed muscles. Illumi watches the speeding rise and fall of his middle, roves a subtle, heady gaze along his body that is comparably much too like a lover's, nay, an owner; he selfishly takes in the details of Killua’s nudity, as though he couldn’t have gone more than a few hours without fulfilling his licentious cravings for his little brother. He may very well have stayed awake while Killua had been asleep, just to stare at him.

“I wanna try something,” Illumi says, doing something terrible with his thumb and Killua's arousal.

Killua stares at the ceiling, huffs at the sensation. He's retained a pleasant sort of emotional absence from their previous tryst. He decides it's worth holding onto.

“Killu.”

_Get on with it, bastard._

Illumi stops his movements, sits up.

He crawls forward a bit—and he is also still naked—sits in Killua's lap, his firm rear settling just in front of Killua's erection. He feels little from the tease, however. Little but for the aching need to hurt; scratch, burn, tear open old wounds and see himself bleed, know that he alone has full control over his own body. Illumi can't have all of him.

His hands twitch at his sides, warmly numbed by deep sleep.

“Look at me.”

With his body, Killua obeys. Turns to face up at his brother in dull contempt; with his mind Killua imagines all the ways he dreams his brother might keel over in spontaneity, die in some all-out, unincited explosion far, far away.

He’s actually saddened by the image. But fickle fantasies are well reputed to have fault, after all.

“You're upset,” Illumi states after a moment.

Killua declines all invitation to speak. For God’s sake, let this end.

His brother sighs, “Talk to me.” His fingers trail feather-light trails across his middle, leave bright red marks for how pale Killua is and how warm Illumi is. “Not going to speak?” He rubs a hand over Killua's bruise on his side, makes Killua flinch. “I'm going to fuck you, Killu.”

Killua internally curses, tenses his body, his heart picks up to rabbit’s pace as he recounts the pain from just Illumi’s fingers. But still, nothing. He's not especially sure why he's refusing his brother. He just can't speak.

Illumi shrugs, “Alright.”

His eyes slip closed, external lethargy granting him the perfect image of resolute resignation. Inside, he's panicking.

His body has gone into a state of hypersensitivity; his hearing is magnified, precise, if not for the blood drumming in his ears. His neck is hot. There's shifting. The sound of a bottle cap coming undone, artificial scent of what’s probably lube being poured onto Illumi’s hand. Strange that he would have that on hand. Perhaps it's by habit. Useless thoughts.

At least he'll be prepared when Illumi enters him. At least. It’s quiet. No movement. Killua considers opening his eyes; but decides against doing so, as he believes it would appear involved, curious. Then—

“Ah!” Illumi gasps softly, impaling himself onto Killua’s cock. Killua’s eyes shoot open, he gasps in return, shakily, loudly at the incredibly tight heat.

“Hah...Killua.” Illumi is breathing slightly unsteady as his pert bottom touches base. Killua, in a matter of seconds, is red-faced, trembling, striving to breathe through the immense, new stimulation.

“You feel good,” Illumi says, swirling his hips, locating his angle of preference.

He feels as though he's being swallowed whole. Illumi sort of clenches around him and Killua bucks upwards involuntarily.

“ _Mm_ —!” He and Illumi let out synchronous moans, Killua’s much more audible. Thunder booms.

He grips the sheets, writhes beneath his brother's weight, trying to move little. He doesn't want this. Illumi snakes hands onto his chest and plays at his nipples, curls fingers around to grip at his lean shoulders, till he's leaning forward so the bow of his spine and the friction of his ass sends Killua into four different kinds of shock.

“How does it feel?”

He bites back a sharp groan that would do very well at answering his brother's question. His heavy breathing and shivering are response enough. Killua refuses to speak. He's balls deep inside his brother. He doesn't want to speak.

“Fine. I'll tell you;” llumi ducks down, hair curtaining around their aligned faces. He's close enough to kiss him, but he doesn't; their lips touch—Illumi’s still, smooth lips to Killua's quivering ones. “It feels perfect. You look so good under me.”

He rolls his hips, drawing a kiss from Killua to quiet the moan he elicits, still keeping his eyes open. “I’ll make you open up to me. I want all of you.”

Killua meets Illumi’s heated stare with contempt. Nearly half-lidded and proclaiming of all the love he can testify—too much, he lets his head fall to the side. He will not participate. Illumi’s eyes and mouth chase after Killua’s, crave his absolute presence. He grabs Killua's jaw and forces him to keep eye contact.

So much dead weight in his own gaze. He can see it in the black reflection of his brother's big eyes. Is this his own sadness? How lucid.

Illumi appears to be knowing of it, but he continues. He leans up just enough to see all of Killua’s upper body, anchors one hand on his chest, one close to his throat, and pulls his knees up to Killua's hips for leverage—and with little transition for warning, he’s riding Killua. Sliding all the way up his length, pressing back down. Tight. Hot. Illumi's rosy erection is large, it taps his stomach as he rises and drops. It’s dripping precome onto Killua, twitching with each movement inside Illumi.

Killua gives dulcet whines through each avid push downward. His emotions are surfacing—this intimacy forcibly exposes him, and his brother’s soft, minutely pleasured expression does nothing for it.

Illumi caresses Killua’s face, and in such a moment of blank weakness, he turns into it, unaware of what’s happening but craving the foreign warmth. His eyes are screwed shut. Illumi kisses Killua, over and again, pecks all over his tense face. Is this true defeat? This sensation is deafening. He's wishing for contradicting outcomes.

“Killu…” Illumi picks up tempo a bit, almost panting. This is the most sexually expressive Killua has ever seen his brother. How sordid.

“ _Hah_ …” Illumi circles his pelvis as he bounces in Killua's stiff lap. And rather would he stay stiff, because his muscles and nerves shriek at him to take hold of his brother's hips, chase the sensations, simply _fuck_ —and he's caught in a despairing cycle of questioning thought; not sure as to whether he desires the salacious bliss that's taken hold of him or the ending to this.

But despite its nature, despite everything, this is necessary—Illumi is what he knows, and he knows him well. Illumi is all he has, and this is his price to pay. He's starting to question his love for his brother. Given, he'd lied before, having told Illumi he did not love him. There were parts he loved. Killua is unsure which is reality and which is unreality.

And he's experienced this enough to know he has no control here—but, never has he attempted it, because never has he desired it. Sex, sex, sex. Worthless. It invades, it envelops. Is no part of him safe? At this very moment his hips are beginning to shift, his toes are curling and he has the inclination to put a bag over his head lest he see his own wet descent to insanity.

Illumi gives a small grunt as he slips off of Killua by accident, then realigns himself before ploughing downward once more. Killua whines pitifully, mouth shut.

His mind is present. Curse everything! His brother, his body. He doesn't want this. He doesn't want the lascivious sight of naked Illumi taking his dick, he loathes his body's appetite, wishes for pain instead of rapture. This is not an apathetic conflict of minor interest. This is vicious mutiny.

‘ _This is only my body_ ’, Killua chants silently, untruthfully, ‘ _soon this will end._ ’ But it’s the endings that tear him apart. Self-hatred never tasted so sour. Despite his body responding as it does, despite every part of him wishing for closure, soft affection, _love,_ after such a long, short life without it, this is all wrong, and he would rather endure the worst of his brother's torture before allowing this to happen again, but he can't stop this—

He's going to come soon. His entire body is shaking, the most delicate sobs of wicked pleasure are singing from his throat, being consumed by Illumi's yearning for reverb. Rise, fall, rise and slick fall, he slides back down Killua’s length and he can’t take any more.

Abruptly he sits up and shoves his brother to the bed, beneath him. Subtle surprise takes Illumi’s features with the force that drives him to escape. As soon as he pulls out, Killua comes, giving a cut-off sob and crashing his head onto Illumi’s chest in blind collapse.

And throughout the surges of fire running over his body, throughout the deafening absence of thought, all that remains is, however low-quality in prose, ‘defeat. defeat. defeat.’ An echoed sentiment of past reflections, ‘past’ being mere hours prior.

Lightning strikes then. Blackouts occur in patches within the city before them. Its thunderous din is but a background static to Killua's orgasm. Or an effect.

Illumi scrapes nails across his scalp, lays there, still, waiting for Killua to calm down from his light spasming. He's panting all the while.

When he opens his eyes, the lithe, pale muscle of Illumi's torso greeting his bleary vision, he sits up. Grasping for spiteful words that won't come, he quickly scatters backwards, accidentally falling off the bed and tumbling onto the floor with a tired ‘ _oof!_ ’

“Done already? I haven't come yet,” Remarks Illumi from where he lays in bed. Killua stands, finds shaky footing on the cold tile. “Were you finally going to say something?”

Attempting to steady his breathing, Killua swallows, frowns. “What… What the fuck is wrong with you?” He doesn’t ask so much out of anger. He'd like an answer. “You…”

Illumi’s phone rings from the bedside table, “Ah, hold that thought Killu.” He rolls over in the bed to answer it—“It's Hisoka.” For four long, silent seconds he waits to answer, like he's considering whether to. Then he accepts the call. “What?” He asks dully.

Killua wipes his brow of sweat, finds clothes in the dresser. He catches words here and there as he throws on sweats and a shirt.

“And Kalluto?”

**~~~**

“Yes I did.”

**~~~**

“I didn't? Oh. I'll find him then.” Illumi fixes damp stray hairs that stick and curl his temples. “Are you on your way back?”

Killua is trying to calm down. Nerves are jumping. In an effort to focus he watches his brother, because Illumi has the strangest way of canceling out these feelings. He glares at his brother, who’s calm and composed even sweaty and nude, after sex, like it's natural to him. His toned figure gleams in the tinted light of the storm. Killua looks away.

Illumi hangs up, sets the phone down again. “Okay, what were you saying?”

Killua shakes his head. No. Nothing.

“Come back, let's finish this.”

Contrary to his expression, Illumi's voice is mellow, ludic. Killua makes no move to respond.

“Take off your clothes,” He orders.

Killua shakes his head ‘no’ again, more fiercely. He grips his left arm, nails sharp, a subconscious, careless gesture to calm himself.

Illumi sees. He sits up.

Standing from the bed, he makes to pull Killua into him. But he jumps back before Illumi has the chance.

“ _Don't touch me_ —” He rasps. “Don't…”

He backs up to the wall, unaware that he's already scratching shallow gashes down the flesh of his forearm.

“I'll die if you touch me.”

Illumi stares, and he's particularly unreadable.

“What makes you say that?” He's in contemplative silence, then he sighs, “Don't be dramatic. You won't die,” He assures. Or at least, he must believe he is being reassuring.

He grabs Killua’s hand, stops him. “Quit that.”

Killua’s hands hurt from Illumi's needles, they ache even further from the ferocity of his tight grip. “Why?” Illumi presses.

Killua grimaces, watery eyes looking distraught. He says, “Because you're my brother…”

“Why does that matter?”

He scoffs upon the question. “This is wrong. So wrong.”

“But Killu,” Illumi approaches further, backs Killua closer to the wall, “that doesn't matter. Rules and morals like that don't apply to you and I.”

Killua lets out a curt laugh, a dark laugh.

“Just trust me.” His grip on Killua's hands loosens. “Listen to me. I'll always be here for you, hm?”

He shoves Illumi away, but doesn't really succeed. It's a weak push, broken. “Stop…” He mutters. There's a distracting migraine urging at his temples now that the heat of the moment has passed. He doesn't look at his brother, he doesn't answer.

And it's quiet.

The rain is a constant, an ambiance, but it does little to relieve this unbearable silence of burden.

The two of them are so very still.

Mute.

_I'm going to kill you one day._

Killua almost says it.

It's only a whisper in his mind, a terrible, fearsome thought, but still he fears Illumi may somehow develop the ability to read his mind and become aware of it. If he hasn't already. A tear slips from Killua’s eye as he stares at a spot on the wall beyond the height of his brother.

Illumi looks to the door suddenly. “Hisoka is here.”

He leans down, kisses Killua so fiercely he's backed into the wall with a grunt. He grips at Killua’s arm, his palm covering fresh scratches. When he pulls away, a string of saliva is torn, and Killua is grateful for the air.

“Never hurt yourself again, Killua.” This is a direct order. The hand that holds him squeezes, as in emphasis, and then lets go.

The front door is heard opening from the loft. Illumi releases Killua, reaches for his robe. “Don't leave this room, I'll be back.”

Killua watches his brother leave the room, barely making it to the bed on his two feet. When the door clicks shut, he scoffs; he doesn't think he's in any state to be wandering around, anyhow. Not that it should stop him from getting back to Gon, his state of health, but Illumi is now aware of his cares, and won't hesitate to abuse his advantage.

Killua looks out the window.

It's still raining. Is Gon in great pain? Is he capable of malice the way Killua is?

He falls into the warmth of his original spot in the bed, haphazardly rolls himself into the thick duvet until he's tangled. He lets his mind fog, more useless thoughts birth.

This room will be much darker than it is now in daylight—He surmises that no iniquity is so shrewd as to avoid the light's eye. He was rather unexpecting of these bedroom events yesterday morning.

He never had control. Not once. All he has are his secrets, and Hisoka knows them. Gon's arrival had given him hope. Is Killua so vehemently hollow as to let it dissolve?

He chuckles a bit. He’s so sad. He wipes his tears, digs himself a deeper mess in this fortress of soft things, pillows lodging in the blankets and the blankets curling around his legs in all different directions. He laughs harder. He's dizzy and broken, but he can't stop laughing. He's got a hand down his pants scratching his thigh, but he can't stop laughing. His distress is feeding into a violent urge to kill. He's giggling like he's lost his mind. Perhaps he will, if he keeps this up.

Then, slowly, he stops. His eyes open.

It's not over. It's not.

He feels the weight of anticipation hiding inside him, away from his brother’s blackened touch. Gon needs him.

If he refuses Illumi, Gon will pay for it. If he gives in, nothing will change. So.

Killua needs to conceal his movements. Gon can escape if he is careful. Killua starts to devise a plan; but he knows that a plan alone is nothing much. It comes down to disobedience, defiance—the will to act, can he summon it?

He decides not to think. Just do. Killua knows the value of his mental strength. He can't afford to break right now.

Just a bit longer. Everything will be alright. It's not a lie this time. Gon will live, because Gon _must_ live.

Killua whispers to himself his musings. He throws the covers and blankets away, rushes to his secret possession hiding in the second drawer, under his ugliest sweater. He kneels to the floor from where he stands, hunching over, opening the journal. He can hear Illumi engaging with Hisoka from here, so he'll know when or if to toss it.

Using a pen from the hotel’s provided set sitting atop the dresser, he writes.

It helps to write, and so he chronicles his plan, his fears, his feelings. He gives the pen his own heart, because the pen has done him well, and never could it betray him. The pen is braver than he. The pen speaks to Killua, of Killua. It inks his will onto the paper in smeared, erratic cursive. Lovely.

When thunder rolls, and the sky is alight, his focused eyes emulate the shade of lightning. This storm rather suits Killua. It keeps him company in his worst, he's grateful.

Gon's name makes it into his handwriting more than a few times. He's calm. It helps to write, so he doesn't stop.

 

 

 

 

 

  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading. Much appreciation goes to [lost](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lostbedouin/pseuds/Lostbedouin) who greatly assissted with the conceptual progress and characterisation with this chapter.

**Author's Note:**

> please review, it does me all sorts of good. truly. im absolutely interested in your thoughts and feelings on this story
> 
>  
> 
> {stalk/yell/squeal at or with me about the story on [my tumblr](https://abniwrites.tumblr.com/) }


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